


The Devil Never Sleeps

by PointlessNostalgic



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom - Susan Kay, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-26 12:59:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 56,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PointlessNostalgic/pseuds/PointlessNostalgic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christine Daaé never had the luxury of studying at the Palais Garnier, and instead met her mysterious Phantom through different means.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

** The Devil Never Sleeps **

It was far too sunny. Funerals were never meant to be sunny. It was supposed to be somber and overcast, reflective of the mood. Perhaps even rainy. She would much prefer to clutch an umbrella than to shield her eyes from the blinding sun. And yet, here she stood, gloved hand hovering at her forehead to keep from squinting, hating herself for being distracted by the weather. No, funerals were supposed to be different.

"God is celebrating a new angel today. That's why he brings out the sun," one elderly guest had offered, but the sentiment didn't bring her any hope or tranquility. She would never curse God, but she didn't  _want_  him to have a new angel—she hadn't been prepared to give her father up just yet, and all she wanted was to wake up the next morning and find him there. But, such a dream was an impossibility, and as she stared down at the freshly dug grave, it seemed to sink in all at once.

Loneliness. How very keen it was.

What struck her most was how many people had come to see her father—people she had never met in her life, but whom all insisted that they knew her father well. People of his past and present flocked, all speaking fondly of their memories. And how ashamed she had felt when she was unable to even speak two words about him, too fearful that her voice would fail her halfway through her speech. And so, she let others take the reins, speaking the words that she could not muster, telling the tales that she could not find.

Even more odd was how exceptionally quickly the entire affair went by. She thought it would feel long and drawn out, but it all went by at breakneck speed. She had even wished to stop time as she looked into the casket one more time before they closed it, painfully aware that it would be the last time that she saw her father with her own eyes. That is, until she joined him in death. But even those last moments with him seemed eons away as she stood, now alone, eyes boring into the gravestone.  _Beloved Husband and Father_. The former title seemed odd in her mind given that she had barely known her mother, but it seemed fitting.

Christine wasn't sure how she pulled herself away from the gravesite, but on instinct, she found herself making her way towards the iron grated gate that signaled the graveyard's exit. She would be there tomorrow—she was quite sure of it. Perros would become a second home, for the thought of leaving her father here seemed far too unnatural. She had to come and keep him company, even in death.

It was a long walk home, but she barely felt the distance as her mind went obligingly numb. She had been so overridden with emotions over the course of the past few days that she felt the rational switch in her brain flip on, blocking out the pathos that weighed on her.

It was when she activated this practical part of her brain that she began to think of what the next day would hold. And then the next week, and then the next year. She had spent an exorbitant amount of money on the funeral, unwilling to cut any corners on the final event of her father's life. But now, as she thought back on her assets, a new fact hit her—that she would not be able to sustain herself for very long. She had never had a job of any official sort, for she had only helped her father out in his ventures, delivering packages and writing letters. But now, all she had were their house and their meager possessions—hardly enough to survive on for much time.

When Christine finally made her way back into her house, she did so with a newfound understanding, and all at once she felt far less childish. Her mind was suddenly clear, and she knew that she could not continue to live on her own. She needed to find a job or a benefactor. No one would look out for her or pay the slightest attention if she starved to death in this little house, after all. Now that her father was gone, she was utterly forgotten by the world around her, and the thought made her stomach sink. But, before she could upset herself over the thought, she found the discarded newspaper that she had overlooked that morning and opened it up, her eyes scanning for employment opportunities.

Perhaps she had hoped too far, for all she saw were unsuitable for her gender, her age, or her experience. She felt tears finally welling up in her eyes as she continued to search the small print, hoping to find something that she was capable of doing. And then she saw it:

_Seeking Caretaker and Housekeeper. Must be available to live-in. No previous experience necessary. Must be unobtrusive and must not be bothersome._

Christine wiped away the tears and looked down at the address, completely ignoring the odd requirements. It was less than a thirty minute walk away, which made her heart jump in hope. The daylight was still lingering, and when she looked up at the clock she leapt up. Perhaps it was too late in the day to inquire, but she feared losing the opportunity if she didn't take the chance. And so, pulling her cloak back on and ignoring the ache in her feet from her long walk, she made her way outside, newspaper in hand.

The street wasn't easy to find, and she found herself stopping every few blocks, asking passersby to guide her in the right direction. Despite being relatively close to her home, she found that she could not place the precise location, and even as she turned onto the street, she found herself bewildered.

And then she saw it. The house was enormous, clearly having been around for some time. Ivy crawled up the walls and every window was covered in dark curtains, shielding its contents from any prying eyes. Its immensity almost made her turn back, any thoughts of being employed utterly forgotten, but she forced her feet to continue on until she was at the front door. A lion-faced knocker adorned the wood, and she struck it against the door three times, her heartbeat beginning to accelerate in anticipation.

There was silence within the house for some time, and she was almost prepared to turn around and leave. But something made her stay, and before long, a wooden slat opened on the door and two golden eyes beamed out from behind it, looking down at her piercingly.

"May I help you?" came the cold voice, somewhat muted from behind the door.

For a moment, she couldn't find words, and she stood mesmerized by his gaze. Finally, she cleared her throat and looked down at the paper, holding it up slightly for him to see. "I saw your advertisement," Christine stumbled, looking back to him automatically.

"It's a bit late to be calling," he mused, and she swallowed hard, unwilling to break her gaze, unwilling to appear weak.

"Forgive me, Monsieur—I didn't want to miss the opportunity," Christine said with some semblance of strength. She had come this far and had risked this much—she would not be turned away so easily.

"Go home, girl," he scoffed, and her lips parted wordlessly, not wanting to be sent away without any consideration. "I do not need a child taking care of my home." He began to close the wooden slat and she spoke rapidly to stop him.

"I'm not a child, Monsieur," she insisted, taking a step closer to the door as he looked back out at her.

"What is your name?" he asked slowly after a pause, though she could sense the impatience slipping into his voice.

"Christine," she responded with a bright smile, thinking that she had made headway.

"Christine," he repeated, and she nodded rapidly. "Go home, Christine. I'm sure your father is very worried for you," he growled condescendingly, and her heart sunk.

"My father's dead, Monsieur," she said before she could think otherwise. "He died two days ago. And I need a job, quite desperately." Christine tried to keep her voice steady, hoping not to sound like a sniveling mess to this stranger.

And indeed, he seemed to stop at this, studying her closely. "What was your father's name?" he asked warily, and she suddenly wished she could see his facial expression in the darkness, frantic to know what he was thinking.

"Charles Daaé, Monsieur," she replied, the name seeming unworldly on her lips as names of the dead always did. And abruptly, she saw his eyes change and he didn't appear so very severe behind that door. The man said nothing for several moments, his eyes boring into hers incessantly until she finally heard the locks on the door turn before it creaked open slowly.

"Come in," he commanded sharply, and she hesitated a moment before stepping in quickly, listening as he closed the wooden door behind her. Immediately, she was caught up in the splendor that was the front entrance of the house. Tapestries depicting stories of gods and demons alike lined the walls, countered with elegant sconces that lit the hallways. The wooden floor, though dusty, was covered in an elaborately dyed Persian carpet that looked like something out of a Shah's palace. She had never seen such elegance or antiquity, and it nearly took her breath away. But it wasn't long before she felt his eyes on her, and she finally turned to look at him for the first time.

Menacing. That was the first word she could use to describe him. His amber eyes still glowed in the dim room, and to make things even more mysterious, a half mask covered his face, molding his expression into one of permanent contempt and obscuring her view of his full façade. She quelled her desire to ask about it, all too aware of how rude such a question would be. He was dressed to the height of fashion and looked as if he was ready for an evening at the opera. And all the while he stood there, scowling at her shamelessly.

"You are prepared to start work immediately, then?" he asked with an unapologetic air, his restrained voice careful to give her no hints as to what he was thinking.

"I would live here permanently?" Christine asked tentatively, suddenly feeling very small as she took in his full stature.

"I believe the advertisement indicated as much," he snapped, and she clenched her jaw to hide her instinctive flinch.

"Well, my father died only two days ago—I haven't sold our home or gathered our possessions," she offered, refusing to bring her emotions into her words. "And I don't have any other clothes, so I will have to return for those," she continued on delicately, hoping not to lose the job simply because she had come unprepared.

"I will take care of it," he replied automatically, and she furrowed her eyebrows.

"Why are you being so kind to me?" she asked quietly, and his eyes narrowed on her silently. "I apologize—I don't mean to be ungrateful."

"It has little to do with kindness," he replied, his cryptic words only causing a new wave of bemusement to wash over her face. "Shall I show you your room, then?" he asked, and she blinked away her confusion as he turned and began down the hallway.

She followed closely behind, keeping tabs on every right and left turn they took, already aware of what a labyrinth his home appeared to be. He had a large stride, and she had to jog a few steps to keep up, though he didn't seem to take notice.

Finally, he came to a halt at an innocuous door, turning back to her with a grim expression. "Your room, Mademoiselle," he intoned as he pushed the door open for her. With a few ginger steps, she made her way into the room and looked around silently.

It was an unassuming space, yet it still surpassed her room at home in luxury.  _Home_. The word made her stomach knit together in the anguish that she had been pushing aside for so long. She swallowed hard, turning back towards the door to thank the nameless man, but he had already disappeared without a sound.

With a deep sigh, she closed the door and turned around once more to take in her surroundings. But, within a mere moment, she was feeling contemplative and vaguely ill at the thought of what had occurred that day. Rather than try to push the thoughts aside, though, she made her way to the bed and crawled under the sheets, not bothering to change out of her dress before she forced herself to surrender to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

** The Devil Never Sleeps **

This bed was unfamiliar. The sheets were too soft and there were a few too many pillows resting at her head. This wasn't right. Christine's eyes snapped open and she looked around the vaguely familiar room, her heartbeat mounting instinctively. In a heartbeat it all came back to her and her stomach dropped. Yes, now she remembered it all. This was her new  _home_. The word brought a shiver up her spine, but she forcibly pushed aside that pricking sense of regret, unwilling to be nostalgic.

Christine had to will her mind to run blank as she slipped out of bed, finally noticing that she was wearing the same clothing she had worn the night before. This gave her pause until she realized that she still had no other clothes of her own—the man (she still didn't know his name, she realized) had told her he would take care of it. Furrowing her brow, she made her way to an armoire that stood at the far wall. When she opened it, she found that all of her clothing was neatly arranged, as if it had always been there, lying in wait. Looking out the window, she confirmed that it was still early, and she wondered how he had managed such a feat. Still, she refused to dwell and twist herself into knots of confusion, and instead pulled off her clothing and slipped into a fresh garment.

She hadn't the slightest clue of where she should go or what she should do with her day. He had made no specifications as to what her job truly entailed, and far be it from her to assume what his intentions were. Indeed, if she had been more sensible or in a better frame of mind, she might have wondered precisely what his  _intentions_ could possibly be. A young woman had no place in the home of an older man, after all. Still, she could hardly stay cooped up in her room awaiting his orders or fretting over propriety. And so, doubt aside, she made her way out of the room and decided to begin exploring the house, vast as it may be.

The twists and turns of his home were even more daunting when she didn't have him leading her around, and try as she might, she couldn't find her way back to the front hall. For the most part, she found drawing rooms and bedrooms in states of indolent neglect, and just as she fancied herself thoroughly lost, she found herself in a large, well-stocked kitchen.

He hadn't told her that cooking would be one of her duties, but it seemed logical enough. And if it wasn't, surely he wouldn't mind a few freshly baked treats. And so, without waiting for him to appear—for how was she to know if she would even see him today?—she put on a kettle of water and began to make tea. Wracking her mind for the recipes she once used with her father, she pulled out some flour and cold butter and began to mix together a dough to make biscuits.

It was soothing, really, to be cooking. In a way, she could trick herself into thinking she was back in her own home—back with her father. Of course, this kitchen was far larger and better equipped, but if she closed her eyes as she kneaded the dough, she could almost imagine her own kitchen and dream herself to a different place.

But of course, such a vision was temporary, for as she opened her eyes, she was back in this foreign house cooking breakfast for a stranger. Still, it was no time for wishful thinking. And so, removing herself from her gloom, she cut out little circles of dough and put them in the oven.

It wasn't until she piled the tea and plate of biscuits onto a tray that she realized that she hadn't the faintest clue where the dining room was. Without much hesitation, though, she made her way out of the door and began a new exploration, only stopping when she pushed open a large set of double doors to find a grand room with a vast table in the center of it.

As she set down the food, she found herself disappointed not to find the man there at the table. But, of course, how could she expect him to know of her hard work? For all she knew, he could have already eaten, or perhaps he didn't even eat breakfast. With a low sigh, she picked up a saucer and brought the steaming teacup to her lips, prepared to take a sip.

"It would be polite to offer your employer a cup first."

She nearly dropped her cup at the clipped voice that resounded from the corner of the room. She turned quickly and saw that there, in the corner, sat her mysterious benefactor. Before him stood a grand piano, clearly well-loved by its owner, and in his hands he held several pieces of sheet music. Without another word, though, he dropped them on the piano and stood up, taking several large steps to meet her in the middle of the room.

"Oh, of course. Here, I brought you a cup. And some biscuits," she said, gesturing to the tray as she tried to shield her beaming pride with some sense of decorum. When he didn't react noticeably, she picked up the second saucer and made her way over to him, handing it to him gently.

He was silent for several moments, reading her expression carefully. She felt the impulse to look away from his overbearing stare, but forced herself to keep her ground, unwilling to fold to his attempt at unembarrassed intimidation. Finally, he took a sip, a ghost of a smile coming to his lips.

"I'll leave you be," she said finally as she walked hurriedly back towards the tray, wishing to be away from his scrutiny.

"No," he said sharply, and she stopped obligingly before turning around with a hesitant air. "Please, sit," he commanded, gesturing towards a chair. Christine looked between the chair and the stranger, quickly sensing that this was not a request.

Tentatively, she approached the chair and took a seat, staring down at the steaming cup of tea before her. He was oddly still there, watching her, save for when he lifted his cups to his lips to take a small sip. The entire affair was rather mortifying in her eyes and it made her immensely discomfited, particularly once she knew that he had been in the room all along.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked easily, and she nodded wordlessly in response, not quite trusting her own voice. Christine could tell that he was waiting for a response, and when she offered none, he continued on. "You're contemplative," he said, thinly veiled curiosity lacing his voice.

Christine looked up quickly, her eyes meeting his finally. "Am I?" She anticipated a response, but his expectant expression did not falter.

"Care to share?" he offered, though his tone was still stiff.

She stopped for a moment, but shook her head after she assessed the situation. "I'm not sure you'd care for my thoughts," she responded with equal rigidity. She waited for some kind of backlash to this comment, but he merely raised an eyebrow. "I am afraid you will think me a sentimentalist," she elaborated, but his stony façade remained unmoved.

"I  _insist_."

Christine merely stared at him blankly, her stomach twisting in vague anxiety. She turned her gaze back to her tea, uncertainty clear in her features. "I was just thinking about life," she remarked, immediately wishing that her words didn't sound so foolish. And indeed, he chuckled darkly and leaned back in his chair, watching her with careful eyes.

"Quite a vast subject there," he mused, his face filled with that careful condescension that can only come with age.

"No," she said quickly, shaking her head as she continued to stare down at her tea. "No, it's not, really." This time, he didn't laugh at her, and she continued on after a deep breath. "It's just fascinating, don't you think, that we each have this one life to live," she began, crafting the words slowly as they came out of her mouth. "And it's this short span of time—a few decades, which perhaps seems like an eternity to us, but is really just a blip in time. And we just get  _one_ chance at it all, and we only get to experience these years  _once_."

Christine stopped, her eyebrows furrowing in thought for a moment. Gaining courage, she finally looked up to meet the man's eyes, surprised to see that his aloofness had flown. He looked rather severe all of the sudden, but she continued on nevertheless. "I suppose I never thought that this would be the way I'd spend my days, that's all," she said, her voice filled with a surprising lightness.

"I take it you had grand ideas for your little life, then?" he sneered, though she could read something other than disdain behind those words. Something far more poignant and agonizing.

"Certainly not," she laughed, her gaze drifting up in thought. "No, a violinist's daughter doesn't have much grandeur to look forward to. But I suppose in my own, small way, I hoped for something worthwhile—a life I could be proud of."

"Then why on earth did you come here?" he pressed, the edge on his tone worn down somewhat.

Christine paused momentarily, considering the question. In all honesty, she wasn't sure why she had blatantly offered up her life without justly considering other options. Yet, the impulse to come to the house had been so strong and she had felt so little hesitation that it just  _seemed_ like the right decision. Finally, she looked back at him with a small smile and said, "Do not the circumstances justify it?"

He didn't respond for a beat, but then laughed to himself, sipping his tea. "Ah, what an outright  _adult_ you are," he hissed, his voice dripping with daggers that she was sure were meant to harm her ego. But somehow, she merely smiled softly to him, unfazed. "A housekeeper for an eccentric. How very  _heroic_."

Her first instinct was to retaliate, but she stopped herself before she could say a word. Instead, she stood deliberately and looked at him steadily. "Would you like me to leave the tray, then?" she asked with perfect civility, raising her eyebrows in question.

Her intent had been to be bold and strong, but he frowned at her. "Did I say you could leave?" he challenged, raising his eyebrows in question. Clenching her jaw, Christine stared at the man before slowly drifting back into her seat, folding her hands neatly in her lap.

"I see you found your clothing," he observed, finishing off his tea and setting the saucer down quietly.

"Yes, thank you very much," she responded automatically, unwilling to divulge anything else from her mind. She had always hated feeling foolish, after all. Christine watched him, forcing her eyes to remain locked on his in some battle of gazes until she finally spoke up once again. "What is your name?"

The man didn't respond at first, and she was afraid that he wouldn't tell her—that he would remain a nameless face to her. It would match his mystifying nature, in any case. But, he did oblige her with his name after a beat. "Erik," he told her evenly, his eyes challenging her to question him further. Ever one to take a challenge, she cocked her head to the side ever so slightly.

"And why do you wear a mask, Erik?" she questioned, taking care to keep all malice out of her tone.

Still, he seemed unappreciative of her question, and he narrowed his eyes on her accusingly. Without a word, he stood up and stalked back to the piano bench, unwilling to play such a game.

"You are excused," he muttered, and she watched as he sat down with bewilderment in her eyes. "You will begin by cleaning the kitchen and the front hall. You will find supplies in the closet adjacent to the kitchen." He stopped momentarily before adding on a final bit of instruction: "And bring tea tomorrow."

Christine stared at his stiff back for several moments longer, unable to hide her shock, until she finally turned and grabbed the tray. "Yes, Monsieur," she replied politely, bowing her head despite his turned back. He still didn't turn around, though, and she made her way out of the double doors calmly. Upon exiting, her composure fled and she could not restrain the distress on her face as she hurried back to the kitchen, eager to be away from the dining room and away from that man's presence.

No, not that man.  _Erik's_  presence.


	3. Chapter 3

** The Devil Never Sleeps **

Each day was easier, yet it was still far from normal. Christine woke every morning with the sun and prepared tea for Erik, meeting him in the dining room. She had quickly learned what kind of tea he liked—evidently the first cup she had made for him was too sweet, and he preferred a far more bitter leaf. She learned that he didn't eat breakfast, or lunch, or dinner, and she subsequently wondered how he didn't starve to death. Still, she brought something every morning just in case he suddenly gained an appetite and took it away when she found it untouched.

About a week had passed when she arrived in the dining room only to find that Erik was not there. It was really the only time of day she saw him, for he holed himself up in distinct rooms, emerging for nothing and for no one. The only evidence that he was, indeed, occupying the room was the sound of music floating into the hallways, vague as a dream. She had heard him playing piano (evidently he had multiple pianos in his home), the violin, the cello, a harpsichord, and several other instruments that she could not quite identify. And yet this morning, as she looked at the instrument that sat in the dining room, he was mysteriously absent.

What a curious man. He barely spoke two words to her through the day, he wore a mask that he would not speak about, and he lived reclusively without contact with anybody. And yet, somehow, she happened to be there, a new addition to his life. It was all quite inexplicable. And then his  _music_ , of course. It took her breath away, and she had found herself stopping by his door quite often, just to hear a few bars of his music, utterly engrossed in his talent. She would find herself glued to the door, unable to leave, until she finally reminded herself that it would not be advisable to be caught eavesdropping, and continued her systematic cleaning of each room.

The house truly was a mess, and she no longer wondered why he had hired a housekeeper. Each room held a thick layer of dust and was in utter disarray. Books were everywhere, upholstery was torn, curtains had fallen, beds were long unmade, and paintings hung forgotten on the walls. It was as if he hadn't stepped foot in any part of his house, save for his few music rooms and the dining room. And so, every day, she went through the house and attacked a different room, some days finishing two or three, and others barely making a dent in one. But it kept her busy, nevertheless.

Pulled out of her thoughts, Christine moved towards the table, setting the tray down delicately and looking around once more to ensure that he wasn't hiding in the shadows. For hiding in the shadows was a distinct hobby of his, it seemed. When she confirmed that the room was, indeed, empty, she took several steps towards the piano, eyeing it cautiously.

It was a beautiful instrument. A full grand with pristine ivory keys, weighted to perfection—a fact she learned as she depressed one of the keys lightly. It was tuned without a flaw and the wood shined marvelously in the light. She was hard-pressed to say that she had ever seen such a striking instrument, and she couldn't stop herself from sliding onto the seat, draping her hands silently over the keys.

The tune was a simple and unassuming one—one that her father had taught her as a child. It had sparked her love of music so many years ago, and she had since endeavored to be as great a musician as he. Yet his skills had always surpassed hers, and they had never been wealthy enough for her to take formal lessons. And so she spent her spare time teaching herself to sing, practicing the same few piano pieces they had the privilege of owning music for, and only dreaming of a life where she too could be a great musician. But it was merely a dream, for she was a mediocre musician at best—a fact that became painfully clear as she stumbled through her plain piece.

Still, it brought her joy to hear the delicate strings resounding through the room, and as she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine her father's violin accompanying her expertly. That was, until she heard the sound of a true violin sailing through the room, filling her ears with an expertly crafted counterpoint to her own piece. Christine's fingers jumped off the keys as if they were on fire and she spun around on the chair, her eyes wide.

Erik didn't appear angry, though. He lowered his violin from his chin, looking at her inquisitively before  _he_ offered up an apology. "Forgive me for my tardiness—I lost track of time," he said crisply, indicating his violin. Her eyes were glued on it, and she slowly stood up, taking tentative steps towards him. She could feel his eyes on her, but she couldn't avert her gaze from the beautiful instrument in his hand.

"That is one of my father's violins," she murmured, her voice nearly inaudible as the swelling tide of memory rose within her. Erik looked down at the instrument briefly, then back up at her.

"Why do you say that?" he asked, his voice revealing nothing to her. Surely he would not lie to her, for there was no mistaking such an instrument in her ears.

"I would recognize one anywhere," she replied breathlessly, her eyes wide as she finally met him in the middle of the room. "I would sit at his bench as he carved them. And he would play me a tune on every one. He said he was breaking them in for the customer, and it would make me giggle," she recalled with a soft smile, finally looking up to meet his eyes. He didn't respond, though, and her smile fell gradually.

"That's why you hired me," she continued on, her voice flooding with understanding. "You were taking pity on Charles Daaé's daughter…"

"I don't believe in  _pity_ ," he replied swiftly, his voice hard. "But I certainly wouldn't have hired a young girl to care for my house if she weren't his daughter."

"I'm not a girl," Christine shot back automatically, her expression still one of bewilderment.

"Yes, my dear, you are," he countered without missing a beat, and she looked back down at the instrument as she clenched her jaw. "But you see, an instrument is such a… _magnificent_ thing," he continued, searching for the correct word carefully and deliberately. "And your father created the most astounding violin for me, years back. And no amount of money could repay him for his work—I always felt indebted for what he had done for me." As he spoke, he lifted up the violin and inspected it, his fingers running over the scroll fondly. She hadn't yet heard him speak with such warmth or affection, and the stark contrast in his voice made her eyes fly up to his.

"And then there you were—the perfect way to repay my debts." He lowered the violin and raised his gaze to her. "Unless you've changed your mind and suddenly no longer want employment," he offered, and she quickly shook her head.

"Oh, no," she jumped, gulping. "Please do not think I am unappreciative of your generosity," she insisted, and he seemed to cringe at the word. "I'm sorry, by the way, for touching your piano," she continued on in an implored pardon, not wanting to linger on the previous subject.

"You enjoy music?" he asked simply as his eyes drifted over to the piano, altogether ignoring her apology.

"Only casually, I'm afraid," she admitted, looking down at her hands in embarrassment. "I always wished to be better—like my father, perhaps—but a tutor was out of our reach, and so I merely sang for my own pleasure." She stopped, looking back at him when he didn't respond. "I apologize; I'm wandering from the point. Would you like your tea?" she rerouted once again, but like before, he didn't seem to hear.

"You sing?" he pressed as he looked back at her quickly, causing her cheeks to flush automatically.

"Very poorly," she assured him, and for a moment, she thought she saw something like a smile linger on his lips. Yet a mere blink later, that same critical expression was on his face and her optimism faded away.

"You must sing something for me, then, so that I may judge for myself," he replied simply, as if this was the most obvious solution to the issue at hand.

Christine's jaw slackened as she stared at him, openly puzzled by his remark. Where had her job title flown to? She was meant to clean the house and make him tea, perhaps venture out to the market if he wished it. The mere fact that he requested her presence for tea every morning was absurd in her eyes, and yet here he was asking for her to  _sing_.

"I would only be an embarrassment, really," Christine told him, her cheeks blushing red once more. She turned her head away, hoping to hide her mortification, flustering over another apology. "Forgive me if I appear disobliging, but I really couldn't—not in front of you, who is such a skilled musician."

"And how do you know I am so skilled?" he pressed, reaching a hand out to guide her chin, forcing her to turn back to him. The touch made her shiver, but when he released her, she shuddered even more.

"I can hear you when you play," she informed him, her voice quivering slightly. "You're brilliant." Christine stared at him in search of a response, but she found her search hindered by his mask. If she could only slip it off…

"That's flattering, but I believe you are complicating the question. I'm merely requesting a song." As per usual, it was not a request. And so with a sigh, she looked around the room nervously as she tried to push away her mounting apprehension.

"Right here?" she asked him, looking back momentarily to see him nod.

Silly didn't begin to express how she felt when she first opened her mouth to sing. The notes barely came out at first, and she had to stop a few phrases in just to regain her composure. She expected cruel laughter from him as he told her to stop wasting his time, but he merely stood respectfully with his violin still in hand as he listened. Before long, she felt herself closing her eyes, caught up in the sensation of singing once again after such a span of time, reveling in the release. And only a few bars later, she heard his violin join in with her, and they were both soaring across phrases in complete abandonment.

When they came to the end, she opened her eyes abruptly, as if woken suddenly from a dream, and looked to Erik, her mouth slightly agape. Shocked at her own behavior, Christine cleared her throat and quickly made her way towards the door, murmuring, "Excuse me," in hopes that he would allow her to slip out.

"Christine," he called out simply, and she turned around slowly as she winced. Half expecting to be reprimanded for such foolishness, she folded her hands in front of her and lowered her head in preparation. "We will begin vocal lessons tomorrow." Her eyes shot up to him, but he had already turned to grab his cup of tea before moving towards the piano, calm as ever.

"Yes, Monsieur," Christine said carefully, not quite believing his words. Perhaps it was all a joke—maybe he was just trying to play a trick on her so that he could get a bit of amusement out of his new resident maid. But he still didn't turn to her, still didn't crack a smile that indicated some kind of deception. And so, before he could revoke the words, she slipped out of the room and made her way back to the kitchen to clean up after her morning of cooking, giddy and nervous for the days to come.

 


	4. Chapter 4

The next day began as any other would—a trip to the kitchen, a pot of tea made, a batch of muffins cooked, and a tray of it all brought to the dining room. He was there this time, sitting hunched over the piano, scribbling furiously on a piece of sheet music. He didn't seem to hear her enter, and so she carefully placed the tray on the dining room table and quietly left, not wanting to disturb him.

Having already eaten, Christine decided to get started on her day of cleaning, having made it halfway down the hall of rooms and quite proud of it. And so, without much thought, she made her way to the next door and turned the handle. It wouldn't give way to her and she halted quizzically, looking up and down the door. Her first impulse was to grab the skeleton key Erik had provided several days prior, but upon closer inspection, there appeared to be no lock. Perhaps this was a trick of some kind.

Cocking her head to the side, Christine took a step back and looked intently at the door in silence. There had to be a way in—some kind of locking mechanism, perhaps. That was when she took a step closer, bringing her face closer to the door to examine it with more scrutiny, running her fingers along the wood to find abnormalities. After a few minutes of this, her fingers found a small irregularity in the molding of the door that depressed when her finger ran over it. With that, the door obligingly opened, revealing a new room to her eyes.

It was hard to notice anything else in the room except for the piece of furniture—could you even call it that?—that stood stolidly in the middle of the room. It was well crafted, yet simple—not at all like the coffins she had seen at the funeral parlor. The inside of the long box was lightly upholstered, but it was nothing ornate or ostentatious. It was merely an ordinary coffin. And there it was, the centerpiece of what appeared to be a bedroom.

As she began to move towards it, she finally began to wonder what such a thing was doing in his house. Had someone died recently? Was he planning on holding a funeral? Who on earth simply kept a coffin lying around in such a manner? And as she ran her fingers along the grain of the wood, she thought back to her father who was, at this very moment, lying cold in one of these boxes. The thought almost made her retch.

"What, may I ask, are you doing?"

The words were civil, but the tone held a restrained kind of irritation that made her shrink as she spun around. She wasn't particularly sure why, but she couldn't help but feel like she had been caught doing something she oughtn't. He hadn't forbidden any rooms, after all—didn't she have every right to be there? But then, of course, she had forced her way into the room even after it hadn't opened as easily as she wanted it to. Regardless, her inner turmoil didn't change the fact that Erik was staring at her, narrow-eyed as he clenched his jaw in thinly veiled fury.

"What is this?" she asked without thinking, immediately evading his question as she gulped back her nervousness.

"What does it appear to be?" he shot back, his anger replaced with an even more intimidating sense of cruelty. "Surely you've seen one before," he continued on, and all sense of uneasiness fled, replaced with pure resentment.

"Have you no sympathy?" she demanded, suddenly aware of just how close he was. She looked up at him, unwilling to break her eye contact with him, unwilling to bend.

"Actually,  _no_ ," he replied easily, and she gulped back her tears. He sidestepped her after a moment, continuing on to the coffin and running a long finger along the wood fondly. "You think too highly of yourself—this actually hasn't a thing to do with your father," he told her simply, turning back with a grim frown.

"Then why is it here?" she pressed, clenching her jaw tightly and pursing her lips in some semblance of valor.

"It's merely a piece of furniture, my dear child," he told her easily, his frown slowly changing into a wry smile that turned her blood cold. "Don't you like it?"

"I think it's vile," she responded with perfect frankness, perhaps even adding in a bit more venom just for good measure.

"And you're a naïve little girl, so I believe that settles  _that_." He turned to her with a forbidding expression, daring her to say otherwise. But rather than endure his stare, Christine looked back down at the coffin, trying to hide her revulsion.

"Do you sleep in this?" she asked almost inaudibly, the thought sickening her further.

"As it happens, your conjecture is right." His words were clipped and they begged for a reaction, but she merely clenched her jaw in response.

"I cannot imagine anything more horrible," she continued, more to herself this time as her eyes scanned the wood, unable to find any comfort in the thing. "It…Quite disturbs me," she struggled, shaking her head.

"Frankly, I don't see why it should," he continued easily, taking a step back towards her. "You will lie in one of these longer than any  _bed_. Why not become accustomed now?"

He was trying to upset her, that much was clear. But when she still didn't crack under his gaze and when she refused to shed a single tear, he released his mental hold on her and brushed past her, his arm barely grazing her in the process.

"Come. I believe we have lessons to attend to."

* * *

Lessons indeed. Christine wasn't sure what she had expected, but it certainly wasn't this. She thought that they might go through a few scales and test her range, or perhaps he would show her some new music that she would enjoy, or listen to another piece from her childhood. But none of these pleasantries occurred.

"That is not vibrato—that is a manipulation of the larynx! Your vibrato must come from a deeper place! It must be inherent in your very  _breath_!" he commanded as he paced back and forth in front of her, in quite a frenzy.

"I don't know what a larynx is," she murmured weakly, her eyes following him closely and widening as he turned around sharply.

"You don't  _know what your larynx is_?" he repeated slowly, his eyes narrowing as he took several steps closer to her, now towering above her.

"No!" she objected, her timidity being replaced by frustration. "I have never had a vocal lesson in my life! How am I to know anything if I haven't had a chance to learn?" It was more of a plea than a reproof, yet she still felt herself swallow back an increasing sense of fright as he loomed over her.

This answer seemed to be the right one, though, for he merely observed her for a moment before turning away quickly, making his way towards a pile of sheet music. "Please forgive my thoughtlessness. I race ahead of myself." He busied himself by shuffling through papers, but Christine got the sense that he was trying to calm himself rather than actually try to find a piece of music.

"I am eager to learn, though," she amended, hoping that these too were the correct words to say. And indeed, he turned around abruptly and looked at her with a curious expression.

And then he took a step closer before he began to explain the larynx and the hyoid bone, his glove hand reaching up to touch the muscles of her neck. His finger ran along her skin, surely just to show her the different parts of her instrument. And yet his touch, despite being leather-clad, made her quiver automatically. Christine prayed that he couldn't feel her shaking underneath his hand, but she was sure that he sensed it. She was shaking like a leaf, and there he stood, calm and controlled as ever.

But just when she began to marvel at his tenderness and tranquility, he pulled his hand away and turned around sharply, retreating back to those same sheets of music. "Our lesson is over for today," he informed her gravely, and her mouth fell open slightly as she searched for some reasoning. "You may clean up this room and then take the rest of the night off."

With that, he began to make his way out of the room without so much as glancing at her. "Erik," she called out, extending her arm to reach for him slightly. He turned around, and her words were lost as soon as his eyes fell on her. Her mouth hinged open as she wracked her mind for something to say, but finding herself running blank.

"May I go to Perros after I am done today?" she asked rapidly. She hadn't the faintest clue where the question had come from, for she had nearly forgotten about her father in all of frenzy of work. The thought brought her shame, though, and she was thankful that the question had come to mind out of nowhere.

He blinked, considering the question, weighing it over in his mind. "To visit your father?" he asked, raising an eyebrow behind his mask. Christine nodded wordlessly, biting down on her lip instinctively as she prayed for him to agree. Finally, he lifted his chin and looked at her sternly. "Be back before dark," he commanded before turning and exiting the room.

The thought of her father brought more joy than sorrow, which in turn surprised her greatly. In fact, she found herself in good humor as she organized the room, stowing away the sheet music that he had taken out, dusting the instruments and closing the lid of the piano carefully.

When she had prepared herself for a long walk to Perros, it was already midday, but she didn't worry about the time. There was still plenty of sunlight left for her. She searched for Erik through the house, but neither saw nor heard of him. And so rather than worry over him, she stowed a key to the house in her clutch, threw the hood of her cloak over her head, and left the house for the first time since her arrival.

The walk was peaceful, and it gave her much needed time to think. The streets looked oddly different as she walked down them, particularly when she recalled her first trek to Erik's house. The path only held a vague familiarity, but each recognized lamppost and street corner made her smile slightly.

With her mind full of thoughts, the walk to the graveyard seemed insignificant at best. Even so, she could feel the melancholy of the place slowly weighing down on her as soon as she passed through the gates and began to weave her way to her father's grave.

The flowers from the funeral had been cleared away, and she immediately regretted having not brought any. The entire affair had been so last minute that she hadn't even thought of buying flowers. But then, how would she possibly pay for them? She pushed aside her regrets as she kneeled down by her father's grave, looking intently at the gravestone.  _Beloved Husband and Father_. Yes, that did seem right now.

"Father, you'd be so proud of me," she said quietly, keenly aware of her voice's invasion of the silent graveyard. "I've found a way to live on my own, and my employer is teaching me to sing! He's an extraordinarily talented musician, you see," she gloated, smiling knowingly. "You may think it inappropriate—that I live in a grown man's house, that is—but I assure you that he is a perfect gentleman."

Christine stopped as she realized that she was, indeed, talking to no one. Smiling and laughing to no one. And so with a deep sigh, she stood up and nodded cordially to the gravestone before turning towards the gate as dusk fell over the graveyard. And somehow, she conveniently didn't notice the golden eyes shining just a few gravestones away, watching her vigilantly, never missing a word.

She remained utterly ignorant of her follower as she exited the graveyard, only just noticing how dark it was becoming around her. She picked up her pace, both for the sake of Erik and herself—the streets were never the place for a young lady at night, after all. It wasn't long before she knew that she wouldn't be back before the sun had completely set, and she silently cursed herself, hoping desperately that Erik wouldn't be too cross with her.

Her worry over her employer's demeanor fled within a moment, though, for a carriage rolled past her and came to a halt only a few steps away. Her eyebrows furrowed as she slowed, not wanting to be caught in the middle of some trouble. But what she heard made her freeze, for a voice rang out from the carriage as a young man stepped out, a look of delight on his face.

"Little Lotte?"


	5. Chapter 5

Initially, Christine wondered how he could possibly recognize her after so many years, but in truth, he looked precisely the same—save for his height and maturity, of course, but those did not hinder her recognition. He had the same blonde hair that swept behind his ears, the same welcoming bright eyes, and that smile that was beyond infectious to anybody who saw it. Indeed, all of her trepidation flew when he stepped out of the carriage and looked at her with that familiar expression, and she hurried over to him as a smile of her own broke out on her face.

"Raoul de Chagny?" she confirmed, laughing at the luck of it all. This sudden elation was a welcomed feeling. After her father's death, everything had seemed painfully unfamiliar, and the mere sight of this childhood friend brought a lightness to her heart that she hadn't felt in what seemed like years.

"I cannot believe my eyes! When in heaven's name did we grow up?" he asked jovially as they approached each other. She could tell that he wanted to embrace her as they would when they were children, but propriety kept their greeting at a warm handshake.

"I couldn't say," she responded, her smile widening even more. "You look wonderful," she told him politely, and he looked her over as his smile fell slightly, replaced with a more somber expression.

"And you are beautiful, Little Lotte," he replied in all seriousness, reluctant to release her hand from his grip, and she blushed deeply despite his courtesy. "I didn't mean to embarrass you—I apologize," he amended, his smile returning as he dropped her hand. "To make it up to you, can I persuade you to come to dinner with us? I'm sure the restaurant wouldn't mind another guest."

Christine had not expected such an invitation, and it took her aback for a moment. She blinked before she looked down at her hands regretfully, swallowing back her disappointment; she wanted so dreadfully to go and enjoy his company and hear of his ventures, but she knew that it was an impossibility. "Forgive me, Raoul, but I'm afraid I can't. It's already after dark—" she began, but he spoke over her rapidly.

"Your father won't mind! We can stop by your home if you'd like, and I'll assure him that I'll take good care of you. You'll always be safe in Paris when you're in the hands of a Chagny," he joked with harmless mirth as he leaned in and winked in good nature to her.

Christine's mouth opened, but she couldn't find the words for a moment. "Oh, I suppose you wouldn't know," she murmured nearly inaudibly, thinking back to her conversation in the graveyard. "My father died recently. I am on my own now," she told him with as much composure as she could muster, and his face fell immediately.

"Good heavens, I regret having missed the funeral! I'm afraid I didn't even know you two were in Paris, but had I known, I certainly would have paid my respects," he told her gently. Christine merely smiled softly in response, unable to find the words to respond. "But you live by yourself now? That's unspeakable!" he exclaimed, bringing a hand to his chest. "You know that my home is always open to you," he continued, but his words seemed nothing but a polite gesture and she looked at him with unveiled incredulity.

"Raoul," she said, laughing a bit at his insistence. "I don't think your family would quite approve of you inviting a violinist's daughter to come live with you," she mused, and he shook his head rapidly, not finding the entire situation nearly as funny as she.

"But it's not  _any_  violinist's daughter—it's Christine Daaé! My childhood friend! The girl who taught me Swedish! The one whose scarf I threw myself into the sea for!" he exclaimed, not in the least bit deterred by her words.

"And the one you haven't seen in twelve years," Christine finished, though her words held no hint of animosity. "I do appreciate your offer, but I'm afraid your family would hardly know me. I would be an inconvenience, and you know how people would talk," she began, and when he opened his mouth to assure her otherwise, she continued. "Besides, I have a home now. I work as a housekeeper in a man's house."

Raoul stopped for a moment, staring at her blankly. "A housekeeper? But you are above that!" he insisted, to which she laughed once again and shook her head.

"Certainly not," she assured him, but he had already begun speaking once again.

"And in a man's house? Alone? Are you certain that is such a good idea?" he asked in sudden concern.

"I have grown up quite a bit since I last saw you, dear Raoul," Christine told him with a comforting smile. "I assure you that I am quite safe."

"But he is merely your employer. Nothing more," he confirmed as he eyed her carefully, watching carefully for her expression to change.

"Heavens, no," Christine replied with sudden sincerity, shaking her head quickly. "I work for him— nothing more." The thought still made her stomach flip, though she wasn't sure whether it was at the thought of any relationship with Erik or at Raoul's adamant need to know of her heart's attachments.

"Then he won't mind if I steal you away for lunch tomorrow. Surely you have a break to eat," he asked teasingly, raising an eyebrow in question.

Christine stopped for a moment and considered the question. Save for morning tea and her apparent lessons, Erik rarely saw her throughout the day. He wouldn't notice if she were gone, would he? And even so, if she asked to leave for a short time, would he really object? Her mind objected all at once as she remembered just how critical and disobliging he was at the oddest things—perhaps he would be furious to know that she wanted to go out to lunch with a friend.

She quickly realized that Raoul was staring at her expectantly, though, and she began speaking before she had fully formed her thoughts in her mind. "I would love to go to lunch with you."

She tried not to show her apprehension on her face, for Raoul was beyond pleased by this response. He opened his mouth to reply, but was stopped by a shout from the carriage that still sat at a distance. "Raoul, if you don't get back into this carriage in the next twenty seconds, we are leaving without you!"

Raoul rolled his eyes at the sound, muttering his brother's name under his breath. "Forgive me—it seems I must go. But meet me here tomorrow at noon and I'll bring you out to a place you'll love," he assured her, taking her hand once more in his own. "Little Lotte…" he said quietly as he kissed the back of her hand, evidently still astounded at her presence, before he finally released her and jogged back to the carriage. He waved once as he climbed in and she waved back, though her mind was far away.

As soon as the carriage rounded the corner and disappeared into the dark, Christine all but ran the rest of the way back to the house. It was pitch black by the time she turned the corner where Erik's house resided, positive that he would be furious for disobeying him. Pushing aside such thoughts, though, she turned the knob, the street lights barely providing light to see as she opened the door.

It was even darker inside, if such a thing was possible, for all of the sconces had suddenly gone out. Closing the door automatically, all light from the street disappeared and she was left in complete darkness. She reached for the knob, preparing to open it again for instinctual safety and light, but it had somehow locked behind her. Her heartbeat began to mount as she looked around, her eyes refusing to adjust to the deep darkness.

When she felt the icy hand on her shoulder, she let out a shriek of terror and spun around at breakneck speed. There in the darkness, she could see nothing but two golden orbs floating above her reproachfully.

"Perhaps we have differing opinions of  _before dark._ " His words were icy, and as her eyes began to adjust, she could see the outline of his mask on his face. This vague ability to see didn't comfort her at all, though, for he looked stern as ever as he stared down at her.

"Forgive me—I was detained," she stuttered, wondering why she couldn't find the courage to just tell him about Raoul. "It won't happen again," she assured him, to which he narrowed his eyes and cocked his head to the side slightly.

"Is that right?" he asked quickly, though she saw his face soften slightly after his biting words, perhaps remorseful for his reproach. She stared up at him, her eyes roaming over his face, taking in every nuance of his expression. He swallowed, and she could tell that words were sitting at the tip of his tongue, unwilling to be said. She tried not responding, hoping that the silence would convince him to speak, but he stayed quiet.

"Erik?" she asked, shocked to find her voice steady for a change. Somehow his hand made it to her cheek and the back of his fingers ran over her skin lightly, and for once she did not shiver.

"Yes?" he asked, his fingers lingering at her chin for a moment as his eyes searched for something in hers.

"Please tell me why you wear a mask," she pressed, and in an instant his hand had fell and any softness in his expression had hardened to stone. "I'm not trying to be cruel," she amended quickly, but this didn't seem to help. "I'm just curious."

"Ah, yes. Always curious," he replied with blunt reticence. His gold eyes disappeared rather quickly and she could sense him walking away from her without a word, melding into the blackness with ease.

"Wait!" she called out, searching in the darkness for the outline of his shadow. "It's so dark—I cannot find my room without some light." It was a complete truth, but she still felt rather pathetic calling out into the nothingness. Nevertheless, she knew if she didn't get help, she would spend the entire night with her hands on the walls, stumbling down hallways until morning came.

"The candles burnt out this afternoon," he told her, and her eyebrows furrowed suddenly in puzzlement.

"All at once?" she asked, then slowly thought through his words, realization hitting at once as she temporarily forgot about the darkness. "I will go to the market tomorrow afternoon and purchase some, then," she said slowly, pleased to have some excuse to get out of the house at noon in order to see Raoul.

He didn't respond for a moment and she was worried that he would suspect that her words were not altogether honest. "How very  _thoughtful_  of you," he said finally, and she sensed something out of place in his tone. She didn't dwell on it long, though, for she felt his hand touch the small of her back. She jumped at his touch, not aware that he had even approached her, but relaxed shortly after. "This way," he said quietly, and she allowed him to lead her through the house.

She hadn't a clue how he could see a thing in the blackness of each hallway, but he somehow knew each twist and turn that led to her room without trouble. When they finally reached her room and he pushed open the door, dim light met her eyes—a single candle was flickering by her bedside table, and she welcomed the familiarity with open arms.

"Do sleep well, my dear," he told her, and his tone made her turn back to look at him. He was merely observing her silently, though, his previous coldness having fled. He grasped her hand easily, lifting it up towards his lips. Her eyes followed her hand as it was lifted towards him, and she felt her lips part wordlessly in wonder.

Just millimeters before his lips touched her hand, though, he seemed to think better of it all, and he released her without a second thought. Her hand hovered there for a moment, her mind still lost in the similarity of both his and Raoul's goodbyes, as if Erik was replicating him. But before she could think of it further, Erik turned on his heel and made his way down the hall, disappearing into the darkness almost immediately.


	6. Chapter 6

Her lesson the next day was far more enjoyable than the last. She certainly hadn't improved vastly over the past handful of hours, but she had begun to understand the relaxed discipline required of her during lessons, and he seemed to understand where her breaking point was. Of course, he continued to challenge her and demand only her highest concentration, but he never belittled her or made her feel dim-witted. Still, that didn't stop her from getting frustrated at herself as her mind and body struggled to work in unison as she sang.

They had been working on the same phrase for some time, slowly reworking it from a flat and tedious set of notes into a musical arc that finally  _meant_ something. He would stop her, correct her phrasing of the Italian, and she would try once again. He would stop her again and show her how to shift her emphasis on certain words, and she would try once again. He would stop her and indicate which words her vibrato should grow towards, and she would try again. And finally, when he stopped her one more time, she dropped her arms angrily and let out a huff as tears began to form in her eyes.

Erik stopped and looked at her, taken aback by her reaction. "What is stopping you, my dear?" he asked her, his tone somehow both inviting and stern.

"I simply do not have the breath for such a phrase  _over_  and  _over again_ ," she insisted, painfully aware of how much she felt like a child throwing a tantrum. She took a deep breath to calm herself, trying to be reasonable with her frustrations. "Forgive me—I am merely aggravated with myself and my shortcomings."

"You are unduly distressing yourself," he told her, and she looked up in surprise. She had expected him to snap at her or to end their lesson, perhaps finding her unworthy of his time, but his words were just the opposite. Christine swallowed and looked down as he approached her slowly. When he was only a breath away, he reached out a hand and placed it on her lightly, just below her ribcage. "Here," he told her, and she looked up to meet his eyes. "Breathe here."

It took her mind a moment for her body to catch up with her mind, and for her first few breaths, she felt her chest expanding rather than her stomach.

"Concentrate," he commanded quietly, and she closed her eyes, her entire body relaxing as she took in a low breath and opened her mouth to sing once again.

It wasn't perfect by any means, but a newfound richness and ease came to the phrase, and sounds she had never expected to come from her mouth seemed to soar across the room without trouble. When she finished the phrase, she let out her air with a laugh, opening her eyes quickly to see Erik's smiling face before her.

She had never seen him truly smile. Not like this. She could see pride and delight in his eyes, and his mask, though fixed in its mold, seemed less harsh somehow. Christine let out another laugh of content, a hand flying to her chest as she shook her head, still unable to believe that she had truly made those sounds.

She opened her mouth to speak—to revel in the feeling that she had just experienced—but stopped suddenly when she heard the clock chime. Her smile fell, and she counted slowly.  _Ten. Eleven. Twelve._  Her mouth dropped open and she saw his expression grow inexplicably grim at all once, as if he knew precisely what she was thinking.

"I have to go," she said quickly, and he raised an eyebrow in question. "T-The candles," she insisted, but even she knew how silly such an excuse sounded. The candles could be bought at any time, but Raoul would leave if she didn't arrive soon.

"Of course. The  _candles,_ " he said as he pursed his hand dropped heavily from her body and he turned sharply, retreating to a desk that sat adjacent to his piano, throwing open a drawer. He pulled out a small pouch of money and walked back to her, all hint of a smile having long disappeared from his face. "This has money for the candles and your salary," he told her stiffly, and she eyed the pouch silently as he handed it over, trying to gulp back her nervousness. She had never been a good liar, and Erik was far from naïve, but she tricked herself into believing that he truly expected her to simply go to the market—that he hadn't a clue that anything else could possibly be happening. What a silly delusion.

"Thank you, Monsieur," she murmured under her breath, bowing her head before she hurried out of the room, wishing she could forget the disappointment that was evident in his eyes.

* * *

"Christine! I thought you had forgotten about me!"

A weight lifted from her heart when she saw that he was still there, even as the city clock rang quarter after noon. She rushed towards him, and this time he kissed her lightly on the cheek, bringing a deep flush to her face.

"I should think it very unlikely that I could forget about you," she told him, and quickly after, he put a hand lightly on her back and led her down the street, talking rapidly as he did so.

"I was worried that you had second thoughts!" he began with a laugh, and she smiled in return as they rounded the corner.

"No, of course not!" she assured him, finding immense comfort in his words and his light touch. "I was held up, that's all."

"With work? I dearly hope I did not get you in any trouble," he said as he looked at her with concern, but she shook her head immediately.

"No, no," she insisted, waving her hand. Her thoughts raced as she considered whether to tell him the truth—to tell him that her employer was also her teacher. Finally, she gulped and looked away from him as casually as she could. "I was in the middle of a voice lesson."

Raoul was silent for a beat before he nodded in what appeared to be understanding. "A voice lesson?" he repeated, a smile coming back to his face. "That sounds like a delightful hobby! I never knew you could afford lessons," he continued on without a thought, though the words stung nevertheless. He didn't seem to notice, and she deliberately evaded his gaze as they entered the restaurant.

"I'm not paying for them," she said, keeping her chin high to show that she wasn't ashamed. The waiter, meanwhile, seemed to know Raoul, and he immediately led them back to a private room. She tried not to notice how expensive the restaurant appeared, or how well-dressed everyone was as Raoul pulled out her chair and looked at her curiously.

" _Really_?" he exclaimed in pure astonishment, sitting down himself. "We'll have two glasses of cabernet," he said easily, and the waiter nodded his head and left. Christine tried to protest, not wanting to drink with her lunch, but the waiter was long gone before she could get a word in. "And who is your generous benefactor, then?" Raoul continued, and Christine looked back, having lost the conversation. She backtracked in her mind and quickly remembered— _voice lessons_. Perhaps this was a poor topic of conversation, but he looked all too insistent across the table.

"Erik," she said without thinking, and Raoul's face scrunched up in confusion. She blushed and looked down at her hands for a moment, shaking her head. "Pardon me—my employer. He gives me voice lessons."

Raoul was silent as he watched her, and she slowly looked up to meet his eyes. He appeared quite bewildered by the whole idea, and she found it difficult to keep up her gaze with him. Finally, he cleared his throat and folded the napkin in his lap. "Do you think that's quite wise? Conflict of interest and whatnot?"

"I'm not sure it's any of your business," Christine said without thinking, and regretted it immediately as she saw Raoul's expression twist into one of hurt. She closed her eyes momentarily to gather her thoughts, then immediately reached out her hand to grasp his across the table. "Forgive me—I didn't mean it like that. It's just…" She stopped, pulling back her hand slowly. "It's just that I can take care of myself." She offered a bright smile to convince him of it, and his hurt seemed to disappear slowly.

Even she was rather frightened by her outburst. Why on earth was she so defensive over someone she had known for less than a month? There was no need to defend him or justify Erik's presence in her life, and yet the moment Raoul had hinted at impropriety—hinted that perhaps she shouldn't be in Erik's presence—it was as if a thread snapped in her mind and she couldn't stop her biting words from escaping her mouth. Still, she put such thoughts behind her and tried to keep her expression soft and welcoming, if only for Raoul's peace of mind.

"You're right. I shouldn't be meddling," he replied with forced cheer, his head turning as his waiter came back with their wine, pouring it deftly before he left without a word. Raoul lifted up his glass with a smile, and Christine followed suit as she searched for a toast.

"To…" she began, but was at a loss for words. Raoul had no trouble picking it up, though, and he finished her phrase with perfect confidence.

"To the future."

* * *

She wouldn't let him walk her back to her house despite his many protestations, but after much assurance that she would be safe in broad daylight, he conceded and they departed warmly. He insisted that he would call upon her and that she had not seen the end of Raoul de Chagny, and she laughed genially at this before he kissed her hand and watched her turn the corner.

Christine quickened her pace as she did, her mind immediately drifting back to Erik, wondering if he would ask about her outing. Unless, of course, he already knew about her meeting. She couldn't worry about such things, though, for what was to come was to come, and no amount of fretting would change things.

She found him in the dining room, but it wasn't until she had opened the door and saw him at the piano that she realized she wasn't sure why she sought him out. But there he was, and as he turned around at the sound of the door opening, she knew that there was no turning back.

"You're back," he observed as he stood up, grasping his hands behind his back as he stepped towards her. "I presume you have the candles," he continued, and her mouth fell open as her heart began to beat at breakneck speed.

The candles. She had forgotten the candles. "I—…" she began, and he raised his eyebrows expectantly as she wracked her brain for an explanation. "They were out of candles at the market today," she said finally, but she knew that the excuse was a weak one.

"Ah!" Erik responded with perfect civility, her words seeming viable to him. "And you chose to linger on your way back?" he asked, and her eyes darted away from him nervously.

"I just wanted a bit of fresh air is all," she told him, bringing her eyes back to him with feigned confidence.

"And did you enjoy your cabernet?"

Christine's eyes widened and her jaw slackened once more, not quite believing what she had heard. "What did you say?"

"I said, I enjoyed our lesson,  _by the way_ ," he repeated, cocking his head to the side slightly. "Hearing things?"

"Of course not," she replied hesitantly, her eyes narrowing as she tried to read his expression. "Forgive me for intruding—I'll leave you to your work," she continued without much of a pause, eager to be out of the room.

"Have you eaten yet?" he asked before she could turn, and her eyes darted away once more. "Good heavens, you must be starving. How  _terrible_  of me to not feed you," he gushed in something akin to concern, though she could sense a biting tone of scorn underneath it all.

"Oh, no Erik, I'm not hungry," she told him, waving her hands assuredly, but he didn't accept this response.

"But surely you must be! You didn't have breakfast, after all," he pointed out, and she winced to herself.

"No, my appetite has been very slight lately," she reasoned, terrified by how easily this lie was coming to her. She had never been a talented pretender, and all she could think of was how effortlessly he could see through her with those eyes.

"Curious," was all he said, and she licked her lips in worry before taking a deep breath.

"I was visiting a childhood friend," she exploded, her voice far too loud in the otherwise silent house. "Raoul de Chagny. He's—…"

"I know who he is," Erik said with icy cold calmness. He had always known, that much was certain, and she daren't think of how he had gained such knowledge. Perhaps someone had seen them there at the restaurant and reported back to Erik—but then, why would he really care?

"I apologize for keeping it from you, but I thought that you would not allow it," she reasoned, hoping that he would tell her otherwise.

"You're correct in your assumption," Erik replied diplomatically, and Christine felt her resentment rising. "I need not remind you that you have a grave responsibility," was all he said.

"To work?" she finished for him, nearly scoffing at the thought. "Do you truly believe he'd somehow sweep me away from here?" she demanded, her expression demanding a response. "Don't worry your little head, Erik—I'll still be here to clean," she continued with more bitterness than she had intended.

"Do not be condescending, my dear—it does not suit you," he replied with what appeared to be cynical disregard, and she felt herself recoil.

"My  _responsibility_  to work—," she began once again with more venom, but he interrupted her briskly.

"Not to work," he corrected, taking another step closer to her. "To sing." His face had changed, and he suddenly looked down at her with a sort of curiosity as he took in her expression of offense and uneasiness.

These were not the words she had been expecting. She didn't know what to say at first, but any feelings of bitterness seemed to disappear without a thought. "Erik, I'm… I'm just a little girl with a silly hobby," she murmured finally, the last word coming out weaker than she had intended.

"You mustn't listen to the Viscount, my dear," he muttered silkily, his words so entrancing that she barely wondered how he knew of their conversation. "You are astonishing, and if you let me guide you, the world will take notice." Christine could say nothing to this, and merely stared at him as she marveled at the thought of it all. "But I do not abide by distractions." His last words pulled her out of her reverie with their sternness, and she looked away automatically.

"You do not want me to see the Viscount," she clarified softly, the thought making her stomach drop inexplicably. When he didn't respond after a moment, she gathered her courage and looked up at him with her jaw clenched. "But you couldn't stop me, could you—as my employer."

He remained silent for several beats, no anger evident in his expression. "As your employer, no," he confirmed, though the words seemed strained, as if pulled from him by force. "But if you want me to continue as your  _teacher_ , you will obey."

She weighed the choices over in her head, thinking back to her luncheon with Raoul. Raoul, who believed her passion was merely a hobby, but who had brought the first smile to her face in weeks. And Erik, whose sanity she doubted at every passing moment—and yet, did she even have the right to weigh the sanity of a genius such as him? It seemed utterly foolish to try to understand a mind as wizened as his, after all.

But before long, her decision had solidified in her mind, and it all seemed clear. There was truly only one choice that could be made, after all. Even so, the words that came out of her mouth didn't seem her own, and she barely recognized her own voice.

"Well, I believe that's settled, then."


	7. Chapter 7

It was more difficult than she had imaged to put Raoul out of her mind, but every lesson she had aided in her endeavor. Over and over, she reminded herself that Raoul was merely a friend—that she could expect nothing more than platonic companionship from him. Perhaps not even that, for in what world could a viscount and a housekeeper truly be friends? But music—music was eternal. Music had no bounds, and it would not abandon her, as Erik showed her time and time again. And every day when she opened her mouth to sing and saw the approval in his eyes, and when he saw her love of music as more than a hobby, it all seemed to make sense.

Nevertheless, she hadn't formally told Raoul that she was not permitted to see him—the fact that she  _was not permitted_  still confounded her—and she desperately hoped that he would simply give up on their friendship. Surely there had to be some French noblewoman he could shift his attentions to—someone more worthwhile than she was—but somehow, she didn't think things would work out quite so easily.

But regardless of her situation with Raoul, Erik kept her occupied. If she wasn't busy cleaning the house, she was invariably in the midst of a grueling—yet still rewarding—lesson. But they weren't all as inspiring as her last one had been, and she was never short of frustrations. He had a way of pushing her right to the brink of insanity during their time together, and she nearly always fell short of his expectations in some way or another. Either her tone wasn't clear enough, or she was letting out too much air, or her vibrato was slow, or her consonants were muddy. It was always something, and it took all of her restraint not to break out in tears of aggravation at every one of his sharp commands.

"I can't do it," she finally said one day as Erik paced the room, barking instructions at her vigorously. He stopped immediately in his tracks and turned to her with a frown. "Not when everything I do falls short of your expectations!"

"Christine, I push you because I know what you are ultimately capable of," he said slowly, but this only succeeded in making Christine more upset. "I understand that you are discouraged, but—…" he amended, though his voice was far from gentle, and she could sense that his own patience was thin. What was this—the third time that she had had to stop in the midst of a lesson in order to vent out her pent up emotions? It was no wonder that his tolerance was ebbing away rapidly.

"No, I'm not discouraged," she argued as she threw her hands in the air, though she knew that this wasn't quite true. "I feel foolish standing here, putting every ounce of myself into this music and knowing quite well that I'm  _failing_!" She could feel emotion welling up within her and she turned away from him in embarrassment, taking several deep breaths in order to regain control. But how could she when her mind screamed, reminding her cruelly that for the third time in a row, she was being overtaken by emotion and was unable to put her mind towards her work. How he didn't see her as a simpering mess of a girl, she couldn't comprehend.

"Christine—," he began once again, and she could sense him nearing her. She shook her head rapidly and brought a hand to her mouth, ashamed at being unable to calm herself down.

"I just can't fathom the point of it all," she muttered as he searched for some comfort to provide her. She opened her mouth to apologize for her behavior, but she couldn't seem to find her voice as her breath hitched in her throat.

"I certainly do," Erik replied, and Christine turned slowly to see him standing there at a distance, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. "You will be the Prima Donna at the Palais Gariner."

He said it with such candor that she was sure she had misheard him, but he had spoken so clearly that there was no mistaking his words. All she could do was laugh through her tears at the incredulity of it all, but she quickly brought a hand to her lips to stop herself when she saw that Erik's expression had not faltered.

"Pardon me," she murmured, a small smile appearing on her lips as his words crossed her mind once again. "It just seems a bit…Far-fetched," she explained, but Erik didn't appear offended by her surprise.

"If you could see yourself through my eyes, it would not seem so absurd," he explained rationally, and she felt a deep blush rise on her cheeks.

"You flatter me," she insisted, but he furrowed his brow at this, bewildered by her words.

"No, I do not," he protested, and her smile fell as she saw the utter gravity in his eyes. "I do not believe in adulation—it is far too messy. Only truth."

Christine stared at him, her mouth slightly agape as his words echoed through her mind. "Then how in the world will I ever be a Prima Donna?" she pushed as her heartbeat quickened, perhaps only at hearing the kinds words that he so seldom doled out. "I've never even seen an opera!"

His own mouth dropped open at once as he stared at her, blunt shock in his eyes. "You've never seen an opera?" he demanded, his tone unguarded for once.

"No," she confirmed, shaking her head slightly. She had never seen him caught off-guard, and it took her aback, for she was so accustomed to seeing him calm and calculated. Still, she continued on, pushing aside her wonder as she did. "We could never afford to spend money on that sort of entertainment," she explained, but this didn't seem to ease him.

"We must go," he responded quickly, and she looked at him blankly for a moment. " _Allesandro Stradella_  is opening this weekend at the Palais Garnier—of course, their current Prima Donna leaves much to be desired, but we will disregard her ineptitude," he said quickly as he began pacing in thought once again, his mind clearly in a different place.

"How in heaven's name would we be able to see  _opening night_  at the Palais Garnier?" she raised with disbelief, the confusion on her face increasing as her eyes followed his pacing form.

"My box, of course. It is reserved for every opening night," he responded impatiently, waving a hand at her as if this was the most obvious thing in the world.

"A reserved box?" she repeated breathlessly, her eyes widening. She knew that he was wealthy, but a man who kept a private box at the Palais Garnier had acquired a different level of wealth. "I-I don't have a suitable garment for opening night at the opera," she argued weakly, assured that this was all some cruel joke. Once again, he waved his hand at her dismissively though.

"I will take care of that," he muttered off-handedly, and her bewilderment turned to concern.

"Erik, you mustn't feel obliged—"

"There is no obligation!" he exclaimed as he turned towards her, and she instinctively flinched away, taken aback by his sudden attention. His emotion fled as he saw her tense up, and they stared at each other in stillness for several moments, each waiting for the other to say something. Finally, he scoffed to himself lightly, looking down to the ground as he clasped his hands behind his back once again.

"I do so wish I did not frighten you."

These were the last words she had expected to hear, and her eyebrows shot up in disbelief as his eyes looked to her momentarily, laced with curiosity. How calm those words had been, despite their somber tone, and how collected he seemed through that look of inquiring wretchedness. "You do not frighten me," she stammered, but she could already feel her heartbeat quickening at his words.

He almost laughed at her response, but for once it wasn't in a demeaning kind of laughter. More ironic than anything else. "I am a keener observer than one would think," he mused as his eyes wandered away, his words holding no hostility—merely a hint of sullenness that made her own heart sink.

"Is that how you knew about Raoul?" she asked slowly, and his eyes flickered to hers, his expression suddenly hard, but not cold. She wasn't sure why she had even asked such a question—it was clear that he had no interest in speaking of the Viscount, after all—but somehow the words had left her mouth before she could think otherwise.

Still, he hesitated in answering, and she could sense that he had words sitting on the edge of his tongue. "Yes," he said finally as his eyes bored down on her. "Yes, that is correct."

His words were resolute, but she could sense that there was something underneath it all. Despite her suspicions, his mask and his restraint hindered her ability to read into his expression, and she let it go rather quickly, having no reason not to trust his words.

"I believe we should end the lesson here today," he continued on easily, his expression hardening into something even more unreadable. "But from now on, no more tears. You cannot expect to get anywhere if you let your aggravation block you," he told her diplomatically, and she nodded minutely to him. "And when you feel like you are a 'failure,' as you put it, just remember that every failure is a step closer to success, as long as you have the ability to move forward." He paused for a moment, reading her expression to see if she had understood him fully. "Are we agreed?" he pressed, and she nodded once again.

"Yes, Erik, we are agreed." Christine stood still and watched silently as Erik turned and gathered the sheet music they had used that day, stacking it and placing it on the piano without even noticing that she was still there. "And we are still going to the opera?" she asked after a moment, her voice smaller than she had expected.

He turned around suddenly and looked at her, surprised to see that she was still present in the room. He took a moment to respond, though, and his face softened as he looked at her with an odd measure of fondness. "Yes, of course," he told her simply, and a smile broke out on her face. He turned back to the piano as he closed the lid, and Christine felt a new question welling in her throat.

"Erik," she said once again, the words dancing jumbled on the top of her tongue. "W-Would you sing something for me, perhaps?" she asked tentatively, all the while having no sense of how he might react to such a question.

He stopped once again while keeping his back to her, and she could all but see his mind contemplating the question. At a certain point, she was convinced that he wasn't going to respond and that she would have to leave the room, unable to bear his silence. But finally, his face still turned away from her, he responded. "If it would please you," he murmured, turning slowly to face her.

Christine didn't know the piece, but that wasn't saying much—she was painfully ignorant regarding opera repertoire, after all. But she didn't have to be familiar with the piece to find it utterly astounding. He was a different person when he sang, his voice simply soaring through the air, his eyes relaxed and distant. It quite literally took her breath away with each passing moment, and she found it difficult to remain standing at certain points. He too seemed lost in it after a time, his eyes closing as he deftly navigated the phrases.

She didn't know what could possibly move her to behave as she did at that moment. Looking back, her actions seemed thoughtless at best, and reckless at worst, and she was beyond ashamed at herself. But something made her step towards him silently, her eyes glued on his face as he sang, and reach up a hand towards him. It was right there for the grabbing, pale and porcelain, and he didn't seem to sense her there by his side. And then with a burst of energy, she snatched his mask from his face and looked him straight in the eye, foolishly thinking she would be prepared for what she saw.

Instead, the most inhuman scream echoed out of her mouth as his eyes flew open and met hers, glowing with the panic and rage of a caged animal.


	8. Chapter 8

His voice mingled with hers as his song gave way to screams that matched her own, and she suddenly felt like she was watching herself from afar, disconnected from the scene that unfolded.

He was a corpse—a living corpse whose mouth twisted in an inhuman way as he yelled unintelligibly at her. His cheek was sunken in and his skin looked like that of old wax, stretched thin over some kind of malformed bone. And underneath that skin was a web of red and purple veins, far too visible to her eye, which ran up into his skull. But his eyes remained the same golden hue, sending flames of hatred and ferocity down at her—a hatred that was so concentrated and severe, it seemed devilish and utterly beyond humanity.

It only took a split second to take in his façade, and she immediately began pulling herself away, desperate to escape from what she had seen. Instinct kicked in and she began to stumble back, but he grabbed her wrists painfully to keep her in place, and no amount of tugging and pulling could release her from his iron grip. And so, unable to physically escape, she shut her eyes tightly so as not to see the horror that lay before her.

"Open your eyes!" he yelled at her viciously, his voice full of such screeching emotion that her eyes filled with tears behind her closed eyelids. She wouldn't dare to look again, though, and turned her face away as she opened her eyes unwillingly. "Now, don't you turn your pretty little face away from me," he said with a sudden calculated calmness that made her skin run cold. Slowly, she began to turn her face back towards him, but when she didn't move quite fast enough, he released one wrist and grabbed her chin, forcibly turning her face towards him.

"Yes, I am handsome, am I not?" he continued with icy tranquility, his words enunciated with perfect clarity. "I might even rival your  _boy_ , I dare say!" he exclaimed, and she pulled her free hand towards her other, trying to release herself from his grip. His hand only tightened on hers, though, and she cried out in pain. He didn't seem to hear her or notice her discomfort, and only continued on with ease.

"What, no more questions? No more inquiries as to why I wear this lovely mask?" he demanded, gesturing with his head towards the mask that now lay discarded on the floor.

"Erik, please," she begged, but he continued on effortlessly.

"Come, come! Take off this mask as well! Let me reveal to you my  _true_  face, so beautiful that I must hide it from innocent eyes!" he sang out, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he pulled her wrists towards his face, forcibly grinding her nails against his skin. "Please, take it off of me!" he commanded, his face turning to anguish as her fingers raked down his cheeks.

"Erik, no!" she pleaded, trying with her all her might to pull away her hands just as her fingernails began to create deep red welts in his face. It wasn't long before she realized that tears were streaming down out of his eyes as he cried out in agony, and she let out a sob of horror as she continued to tug her body away from him.

"Of course, my dearest Christine is always crying!" he cried out, releasing her so suddenly that she stumbled back and fell to the ground. She tried to scramble away, but he was above her in a moment, his eyes looming down on her. She could feel herself quivering as he kneeled down beside her, his own body shaking with fury. "Tears of joy, I am sure," he hissed, but despite his venom, tears of his own still flowed freely down his cheeks.

Christine looked up at him slowly, wincing as she saw the angry red welts that accompanied his already deformed face. "Erik…" she murmured, her voice weak behind her trembling lips. He didn't say a word, though, and she finally reached out and blindly seized the mask, gently offering it up to him. "I'm sorry," she continued weakly, fully aware that here feeble words could not take back what she had done.

His eyes flickered down to the mask, and he snatched it away fiercely, turning away as he pulled it back on, covering his offending façade in a mere moment. "Come," he said coldly, all evidence of his wild emotion having disappeared from his voice. He grabbed her wrist once again and dragged her into a standing position as he rose.

She did not struggle this time, but she found herself tripping over her dress as he led her forcefully to her room, tugging on her wrist every time she stumbled. When they reached her room, he all but threw her inside and slammed the door behind her without so much as a word. She rushed towards the door, desperate to make another apology, but she heard the tell-tale sound of a door locking from the outside and she stopped in her tracks.

Before long, she heard retreating footsteps and she immediately threw herself at the door, pounding on the wood as she yelled out Erik's name. She begged him to unlock the door, offered blind apologies and beseeched him for any kind of forgiveness. Perhaps she should not have become so hysterical, but something within her quickly realized that if he didn't accept her apology, he wouldn't open the door. And if he didn't open the door, she would die in a few days time. And despite how melodramatic such a notion sounded in her mind, her instincts told her that forgiveness was vital, and that Erik was not as rational of a being as she had thought.

She could not keep shouting and throwing herself against the door forever, though, and she gave up before long. Her body slumped against the door and she slid to the ground as she let out a long, quivering breath. He was ignoring her. And of course, she deserved whatever reproach she received, for no matter how horrifying his face might have been, her actions were far more heinous. She had betrayed his trust, taken his generosity and thrown it back at him without consideration. And he was a tortured being—that much was painfully certain.

But despite her deep and genuine regret, she couldn't stop herself from the revulsion she felt at seeing his face. Even as she imagined it, sitting safe in her room, a fresh wave of tears welled up in her eyes and she felt suddenly ill. And she hated herself for it all, and berated herself over and over, but to no avail.

She sat there, wracking her mind for what she could do, replaying it all over in her mind, and punishing herself for her actions, but it only succeeded in exhausting her more. She wasn't sure how long she sat there, leaning against the door weakly, but her eyes drooped shut before long and she found herself falling deeply into sleep.

When she awoke, she was no longer on the ground. Rather, she was tucked neatly into her bed with no evidence as to how she had gotten there. A candle flickered by her bedside table, and the window to the outside showed that night had fallen. She hadn't a clue how long she had been asleep or what hour of the night it was. But such thoughts flew her mind as the door handle depressed and Erik stepped inside, his eyes flickering towards her.

Surprise was written in his expression when he saw her staring back at him, her mouth slightly agape as she sat up slowly. After a pause, he moved towards her tentatively, looking down at his hands where he held something.

"I did not think you would be awake," he said at first in a collected voice, though when she didn't respond, he continued on. "I brought you some ice," he told her with the utmost restraint, finally looking at her, his face more blank than she had ever seen it. "For your wrists," he clarified, handing her a bundled up cloth that was wrapped around cracked ice.

She tried not to flinch as he handed it to her, and he didn't fail to notice it as he stepped away to an appropriate distance. "I would ask for forgiveness for my actions, but I don't think that mere words could convey my remorse," he said in a calculated tone, clearly having rehearsed these words. His pained expression made it clear that the words were perfectly genuine, though, and any amount of self-control was only for her sake. She began to protest, but he put up a hand to stop her.

"All I ask is that you stay until I can bring you to the opera," he said slowly, clasping his hands behind his back as he looked down to the ground. "My monstrous behavior should not stop you from seeing your first opera, and I would never forgive myself if you didn't experience the Palais Garnier." She was silent, and he looked up slowly, searching for some response in her eyes. "If you still want to attend, that is." She still didn't respond, words caught in her throat as she watched his expression twist into concern. "Of course, you would want to attend by yourself, I understand that—…"

"I would like you to accompany me, Erik," she said resolutely, her voice stronger than she had anticipated. He blinked as he looked at her, not quite understanding her words. "If you would have me, that is."

He straightened up, clenching his jaw, and for a moment she thought she read anger in his expression. "You know that I do not believe in flattery or pity," he said stolidly, and a ghost of a smile played on her lips.

"Yes, I know that." He didn't say anything, but relaxed slightly at her words. She could still sense that he didn't fully understand, though, and her smile widened somewhat. "I'm afraid I cannot speak anything but French, so I will need help understanding what they're saying," she began, and his face began to sink. "And I would think people might find it inappropriate if I were in a box by myself," she went on, and he narrowed his eyes as he listened. "And I wouldn't ever want to go to an opera without you by my side," she finished, her tone softer.

His face contorted in confusion, and his hands fell by his side limply. "But my face… And the things I did to you…" he protested, and Christine finally set aside the blankets that covered her and pushed herself out of the bed.

"I behaved deplorably," she told him, gulping as she looked at his mask face on, trying not to imagine what was lying beneath that cold porcelain. "I will always regret betraying your trust as I did."

Erik's face remained stony and unreadable, but his eyes dropped down to her wrists, his eyebrows furrowing as he struggled to maintain his cool façade. Her own eyes flickered down and she lifted her wrists to look at them, only just noticing the red marks that encircled them, destined to become bruises before long.

She jumped when she felt his cold hands take one of her wrists, his fingers running over the marks with a feather light touch that brought shivers up her spine. Out of her peripherals, she could read the disbelief in his eyes, as if he couldn't fathom how he could have managed to cause these marks. But before she could soothe him and assure him that she was perfectly fine, he lifted her hand and placed an even lighter kiss on the inside of her wrist. His lips emanated the same, icy-cold sensation that his hands did, but he had gently released her before she could so much as shiver.

"My words may not be able to express my remorse, but I promise you, my actions will." She had never heard words such as these come out of his mouth, and her eyebrows came together as she contemplated his words, so firm and so full of promise. "But if you decide to leave after the opera, I will not put it against you."

This time she did not respond, though she desperately wanted to assure him that she would stay. But her mind was spinning as she thought back to the nightmare that had occurred earlier that day, and she truly wondered if she could go through such an episode a second time. And if she stayed, would she be safe from his fury? He had snapped like a crazed animal, and who was to say that he could not turn on her again? And so, unable to provide a better response, she merely said, "I understand," and nodded gently to him.

Her answer didn't seem to upset him, and he merely looked at her for a moment longer before bowing his head to her and leaving the room in silence. Christine watched the door after he had left, her mind reeling as she replayed his words in her head. But it had all seemed so unreal as she stood there, and she found that she could do nothing but crawl back into her bed and stare up at the ceiling, trying to recall every single thing that had happened over the course of the day.

But such a thing proved impossible, and she did her best to only think of the words he had just said, and the promises he had just made. But somehow, gnawing at the back of her mind, she could not escape his manic rage and his iron grasp, even as she drifted back into sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

It was a risk. Finding his address and tracking down his home would be more than enough, but to confront him over his new ward was a different kind of reckless. But when Raoul de Chagny had come to the police station asking about a mysterious man who was giving voice lessons to an acquaintance of his, Nadir took notice. Of course, the police told Raoul little—Erik would never allow his personal information to be spread through to the incompetence of the police—but if Nadir knew anything, he knew this man was Erik.

It was more of a hunch than anything else, but he had always trusted his intuitions, for they had rarely led him astray. On one hand, he knew that Erik was in Paris somewhere, but this wasn't evidence enough to make him seek out his address. What made his ears prick up in interest was when Raoul began to tell the police officers of how hesitant the girl was to give any details about her employer, and how he feared that she was being kept there through less than honorable measures.

Less than honorable. Yes, that sounded like Erik.

His house was precisely what Nadir had expected—large, austere, and likely a fortune given its location. Even as he came up the walkway to the front door he tried to put nervousness behind him, for he knew Erik and had no reason to be frightened of seeing him. But something in the back of his mind told him that if he began prying in his old friend's life, things could get sticky.

A sudden burst of courage made him knock firmly on the door, and little to his surprise, he heard silence from beyond the threshold of the house. It was a silence that lasted for so long that he was quite convinced that the house was empty, and very nearly left without a second thought. But just as he had made his mind up to turn and go, he heard the locks give way and the door open tentatively.

She was beautiful and she was  _young_ —at least when put against himself or against Erik, who had seen far more years than this girl. Her eyes were wide and curious as she looked out at him, and he could read a mixture of propriety, anticipation, and nervousness in her expression. This was a girl who did not have the privilege of seeing other people very often—that much was evident.

"May I help you?" she asked quietly, and he cleared his throat, realizing for the first time that he had been staring quite rudely.

"Pardon me, mademoiselle," he began, not even thinking to wonder if she was married. "I was looking to speak to Erik." His mind wandered again as he contemplated whether he had gotten the wrong house or had made some mistake in coming. Surely Erik wasn't residing in the same house as this girl who appeared so unlike himself. Of course, Raoul had said that the girl was an acquaintance of his (what a weak word for someone one hoped to marry, which was clearly his intention) but he had never imagined that this girl could be one in the same.

"You know Erik?" she asked in utter disbelief, opening the door wider to see him more fully. The girl was trusting, clearly, which gave him cause to wonder how much she knew of the man she lived with. Not enough, if she was still living there willingly.

"Yes, we are old friends," Nadir replied warmly, and the girl smiled in return. She seemed rather excited to exchange such pleasantries, but that wasn't much of a surprise—she was likely aching for human kindness, a trait that Erik had never mastered.

"I didn't know Erik had friends," she mused with bewilderment, and Nadir almost laughed at this.

"I don't think he does either," he responded, his smile widening into one of teasing delight, to which the girl laughed under her breath.

"Christine, who are you speaking to?"

There was no mistaking his voice, and as the girl—Christine, he supposed—opened the door wider, Nadir could suddenly see the familiar frame of his friend approaching the door quickly. Of course he wouldn't want some stranger speaking to his little housekeeper. The thought puzzled him, though, for how could this  _girl_  live with him and clean his house? It seemed far-fetched at best, but the Viscount had been quite insistent that his acquaintance was a caretaker of sorts, given that she was out of a home after her father had died. But then it all seemed so clear, for if he was able to do anything, Erik was always able to fill the void that was brought on by tragedy.

"Erik," she jumped, turning her head to look at him with a polite smile. "This is—…" She stopped, turning back to Nadir, for he had not told her his name.

"Nadir Khan," Erik responded before Nadir could, his voice icy cold as he looked out over Christine's shoulder, his eyes boring into Nadir's without welcome. He could nearly see Christine's heart flutter at the masked man's words, and Nadir continued on without a beat.

"May I come in?" Nadir asked without any hint of fright, and Christine beamed, looking back over her shoulder to see Erik's stern façade behind her. Her face dropped and he seemed to sense her disappointment, forcing him to grudgingly let Nadir inside of the house.

"I'll make tea for both of you—will you be in the dining room?" she asked, her previous excitement at a visitor having returned. Nadir glanced at Erik, who only nodded once, though his eyes never left those of the Persian's. She rushed away, clearly eager to take on the role of hostess, and Erik turned and began walking down the hall without preamble. Nadir followed behind, putting himself at as much ease as he could as he watched Erik's tense shoulders march ahead of him.

"Why in hell's name are you here?" Erik snapped without turning to look at him, his voice filled with the utmost disdain. Ah, yes. Such dulcet tones should have been expected.

"What are you doing keeping a young girl in your home?" Nadir threw back with perfect civility, not bothered when Erik scoffed in response.

"She's my employee. She cares for the house," he replied dryly and without trouble, entering the dining room and seating himself stubbornly without waiting for Nadir.

"Then why is the Viscount de Chagny coming to me, claiming that you are taking advantage of her?" he pressed, sitting across from Erik politely as he tried to catch his eye. Erik seemed oddly eager to avoid all eye contact, though, and merely glanced around the room with venom written in his face. If Nadir had been looking for some confession, Erik certainly didn't oblige.

"Why, because he's a lovesick puppy who is anxious to bed a simple girl, and is crying to whoever will listen because she has shown little to no interest," he spat, but his words clearly held even more resentment than usual, and Nadir furrowed his brow in question.

"And did you perhaps  _persuade_  her to stay away from him?" Nadir continued, and Erik's eyes flew to his dangerously, his jaw clenched in an attempt at restraint. "Erik, this is quite beneath you. Just tell me what is happening and I will leave you be!"

He blinked, unwilling to respond to the question. Despite his previous calmness, Nadir felt his apprehension mount as Erik looked away once again as an angry sigh escaped his lips. Something was happening and lives that never should have crossed paths were suddenly tangling together—he could see it. And the fact that Erik wasn't laughing cynically at him—denying all allegations and berating him for his stupidity—was what truly made Nadir's skin turn cold.

"I have scant patience for your accusations," he hissed finally, pushing himself out of the chair and stalking to the opposite side of the room. He could tell that Erik's defenses were rising, and Nadir let out a low breath as he folded his hands in his lap calmly. Several moments passed, as he watched Erik pace impatiently across the room, until realization came over him like the gentle tide of the ocean.

"She has seen beneath your mask."

The words were simple, but Erik stopped in his tracks at them and turned slowly to face Nadir, anguish and elation both written in his face. He didn't seem able to respond, and Nadir stood up as well and approached him gradually.

"And she has not left."

Erik looked down at this and barely shook his head, as if he too couldn't believe it. They stood there in silence as Nadir's mind raced, all the while remembering the sweet face that had beckoned him inside the house. Indeed, the conundrum appeared to be quite different from what he had expected.

"I have labored to maintain a distance from such things," Erik said finally, his voice pained as he continued to avoid Nadir's eyes. "But she is… She is a curiosity." The word came out strangely and Erik almost smiled at it, as if aware that this couldn't quite capture her. "Daroga, she is extraordinary," he amended, finally looking up, taken aback by the now stony face of Nadir.

"You love this girl?" he asked in all seriousness, and Erik frowned slowly, turning away as he contemplated the question.

"I haven't the faintest clue what such an emotion is, but…I've heard it said that love is blind, and my dear Daroga, could imagine if such a phrase is true?" he asked with all the delight and sadness in the world, spinning around with childlike wonder as Nadir's frown deepened further. "And why do you look so reproachful?" Erik sneered with sudden coldness, unable to accept that his only friend in the world didn't seem to understand.

"I did not believe it possible," was all Nadir said, and Erik laughed coldly in response.

"That I could feel tenderness towards another human? Or that another soul could find me anything other than repulsive?" he asked with another dark chuckle, to which Nadir sighed once again.

"Please do not twist my words, old friend," he said with exasperation. "I merely wish to know if you will follow through with this as you should." Erik didn't seem to understand his meaning, and he continued on slowly. "Will you court the girl?"

Erik stiffened at this, his eyes narrowing at the question as if he had been pricked with a knife. Nadir should his head, finally comprehending the situation that lay before them, and just how the dear Viscount played into it all. "So you will merely hinder any other romantic relationships the girl could have simply because you are too frightened to show a hint of affection?"

"That is not my intention at all!" Erik argued with adolescent rage, his frown becoming more juvenile as he approached Nadir. "I am her teacher! I am teaching her to sing, and I do not allow her to see the Viscount for the sake of her lessons! He is a  _distraction_."

Nadir had no doubt that this logic was sound in Erik's mind, but to the rational, yet empathetic mind of the Persian, the flaws were painfully evident. "Teacher, lover, employer, and phantom! What other masks will you don in order to have things go your way?"

Erik was coming at him before he knew what to do, and Nadir was sure that Erik would clasp a hand around his throat if he got near enough. He was just about to jump away in defense when the door opened once again to show Christine, her hands balancing a tray of tea, a bright smile on her face. Erik stopped immediately, and Christine didn't seem to notice that he had been coming at Nadir in any threatening kind of manner.

The two men stared at her openly as she came in and set the tray down quietly, unhidden joy written in her eyes. "I hope it's not too strong for you, Monsieur. I'm afraid Erik likes his quite bitter."

"Thank you," Nadir said with a bow of his head, though his heart was still beating out of his chest as she nodded her head genially to him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Erik had made no verbal or physical acknowledgment that the girl had even entered the room, and his heart sank immediately.

"I'll leave you two to your conversation," was all Christine said as she smiled to them and left the room, closing the door gently behind her.

The two men made their way to the table unhurriedly, sitting down across from one another as before. Slowly, Erik poured both of them tea and handed a cup over to Nadir without saying a word.

"Oh, Erik…She is lovely," Nadir said breathlessly, staring down at the tea that sat on the table, unable to bear taking a sip.

Erik couldn't seem to find the stomach to drink his tea either, and instead stared at the door that Christine had just closed, that same torment written blatantly in his features.

"I know, Nadir."

 


	10. Chapter 10

The man—Nadir, she thought his name was—had left not long after he arrived. She hadn't expected to speak to him by any means, but as she showed him out of this house, she couldn't fail to notice the watchful eye he kept on her. It was as if he was trying to discern her every move for a sign of some sort, which only brought about great confusion in her. Still, he barely spoke a word to her until he finally crossed the threshold of the house, when he turned and bowed his head to her, vowing that he would surely see her again soon. Christine smiled in an attempt to hide her utter bewilderment, before he finally turned and left.

When she turned around after closing the door she let out a gasp, for Erik was standing just a few feet away. He was watching her with careful inquisitiveness, and she smiled with lingering discomfort as she met his eye. "Did you enjoy seeing your friend?" she asked automatically, and he nearly laughed in response.

"Don't let him fool you into thinking he is my friend," Erik replied dryly, and Christine frowned.

"But he said—" she began, but he interrupted her before she could finish.

"We merely have a history. He's a prying old man who believes he has a right to know everyone's business," he continued, and Christine's brow knitted together, unsure of how to respond.

"Oh…" she murmured after a moment, looking down at the ground uncomfortably. Of course the man had seemed friendly enough, but she had always been so trusting of strangers—how was she to know anything about his true character? Still, despite Erik's reproaching attitude, she dearly hoped that she would see him again, prying old man or not.

Erik seemed to read her uneasiness, though, and he cut off her thoughts rather quickly. "I have a surprise for you, my dear," he announced, his tone far less severe. Her eyes flickered up and thoughts scattered as she wondered what kind of surprise he could possibly have for her. Finally, her eyes lit up and a genuine grin of delight came to her face.

"The opera! It's tonight!" she exclaimed, excitement flooding her veins as she imagined what was to come. "I had lost track of the week, I suppose!"

Erik's lips twitched in something akin to a smile, and Christine let out a soft laugh to herself. "Your dress is in your wardrobe," he told her, and she felt her heart flutter once more in anticipation. "We will travel by carriage this evening, and you will enter through the front entrance and show your ticket to an usher. They will bring you to the box, and I will join you just before it begins."

He spoke with such calculated civility, but her smile slowly fell at his words. "You will not come inside with me?" she asked slowly, and he sighed in exasperation.

"My dear, I have no place in the upper crust of French society," he told her, and her face twisted in confusion.

"Neither do I!" she exclaimed, and he once again let out a breath of impatience, only upsetting her more.

"You understand my meaning," Erik responded, and she could see that he was trying to remain unflustered despite her rising emotion. "I would cause unneeded alarm," he explained slowly, and she clenched her jaw in order to restrain herself from arguing further. "As I said, I will be there for the entire opera. I will simply be absent for the more… _Public_  side of opening night."

This time, Christine let out a slow sigh and looked down to her hands, wishing that he would change his mind, yet knowing that he would not.

"Please do not be upset with me," was all that Erik said, and Christine looked up with a sad smile on her face.

"I just fear that you are doing this because of me," she explained weakly, and she could see the blatant puzzlement in his eyes.

"Because of you?" he repeated, and she looked back down once again, pained to have to say it out loud.

"Because you thought I'd be…Embarrassed to stand beside you," she replied, speaking with the utmost clarity in order to feign confidence. "But you should know that I am not," she continued carefully, meeting his discerning gaze. He did not respond for several moments, and she was utterly unable to read his expression, stony and hard as it always was.

"It has little to do with you, my dear."

She hadn't a clue what to think of such words, and he continued on before she could think to ask. "We will leave at quarter to seven. Please be ready by then, and we will depart promptly."

It was so diplomatic that Christine could find nothing more to say, and he merely bowed his head after a moment, just as Nadir had, before he turned and left her. She stood there for a beat longer as she stared at the place where he had been, before she too turned and made her way to the kitchen to clean up after herself.

The day went on drearily enough, for she had no lesson, but the thought of the opera lingered in the back of her mind as she chipped away at another room. She dusted and organized, shook out a rug and hung paintings that lay abandoned in a pile against the wall. And every time she heard the clock chime another hour, she felt her heart skip a beat as time ticked closer and closer to quarter of seven.

By half past six, she could not contain herself any longer. She had refrained from going back to her room to see the gown he had brought, but by then she felt the need to all but run back to her room just to see it.

It was a deep mix of grey and blue, nearly the same color of her eyes, and it looked as if it had been handmade just for her given its extreme detail and how it seemed to fit, and as she pulled it on, struggling to close every clasp and secure every button without the aid of another person, it was clear that it had been made especially for her. It fit her like no other clothing had fit in her life, and as she wished more than ever that Erik owned more than a hand mirror so that she could see its full effect. Alas, he was evidently averse to mirrors, though she had never pressed the subject.

Still, she had never felt more beautiful, and as she blindly pinned back her hair, she began to wonder what Erik would say about it. On one hand, she rebuked herself for thinking such a thing—he likely had no opinion on it, for it was merely a dress and she was merely a girl—but on the other hand, she felt the prick of exhilaration in her heart at the thought of his approval, elusive as it was.

Half past seven struck and she had gathered herself before she made her way to the front hall, taking care to walk cautiously in her new dress. For a split second, she wondered how others dressed for such an event, and whether she would seem under or over dressed. She hadn't seen people en masse for several weeks now, and she had certainly never been among such prestigious company. But once again, she vowed to trust Erik's judgment and put such thoughts out of her mind, for she certainly wasn't going to the opera to be seen.

Putting vanity aside, she finally arrived in the front hall, her eyes drifting to the grandfather clock that stood against the wall. Erik wouldn't come for another ten minutes, and she almost laughed at herself, for she certainly hadn't needed to come out so early. But adrenaline still ran through her veins, and she didn't mind the wait in the slightest.

She heard, rather than saw him coming, and she turned quickly at the sound of his footsteps. He had always dressed formally, but here he was in full tails and all black, an ominous shadow coming towards her. She smiled gaily at him, waiting for him to comment on her dress, but he merely looked at her with that same, restrained expression that seemed his trademark. His jaw clenched slightly as she smiled, and he stopped at a respectable distance as her expression weakened slightly.

"Thank you for the lovely dress," she said finally, and he pursed his lips as he took in her person.

"It suits you well," was all he said, but she knew enough of him to know that this was all the compliment that she would receive. And so, with that cheerful expression returning to her face, she closed the distance between them, anxious to depart. He seemed slightly alarmed at her sudden proximity, and looked down at her with a bewildered expression as she looked at him expectantly.

"May I take your arm?" she asked helpfully, raising her eyebrows expectantly as she stood beside him.

His lips parted and for a split second, he seemed almost flustered—a state that she had never truly seen him in—and he quickly offered the crook of his arm to her. She took it gently, choosing not to comment when she felt his muscles stiffen faintly in response.

He led her out silently and he helped her into the carriage before he stepped in as well. It struck her as he sat down across from her that she had never seen him outside of the house, and somehow he seemed out of his element, even in this closed space. As the carriage began to move, she waited for him to say something to her, but he merely stared ahead with ease, not noticing her expectant expression. And so, realizing that there was no conversation to be had, she looked out the window and watched the streetlamps pass them by, their pools of light illuminating the carriage every few feet.

It didn't take long for them to arrive at the Palais Garnier, a building she had only ever seen from its exterior. She waited for him to exit, but he merely looked at her in stillness as the door opened and a valet held out a hand.

"They will show you to your seat. I will meet you shortly," he said commandingly, and she frowned vaguely before he took the valet's hand and stepped out of the carriage, her heart sinking somewhat. It was silly to think that he would somehow change his mind about the whole affair, and she chastised herself as the carriage rolled away, leaving her utterly alone in front of the building. A small moment of panic set in as she wondered what she could possibly do if she was unable to find Erik's box, but the wave of people led her into the building and her anxiety melted away without a moment's pause.

It was magnificent, really. The grand staircase, leading up and splitting to lead off to the two sides of the stage, was massive, and she felt herself stop and stare at it in awe. It wasn't long before someone nudged her forward, though, and she murmured an apology before she walked ahead slowly, her eyes skimming the room for someone to help her. She found herself lost in the splendor of it all, though, and her eyes kept drifting off towards the sweeping archways and the flickering candelabras, each more striking than the next. That was, until her eyes fell upon the young face of her old friend, the Viscount de Chagny.

She looked away immediately, hoping that she had not caught his eye, but she knew immediately that she wasn't so lucky. Within a moment, he was nudging through the crowd, coming towards her with a gleaming smile on his face.

"Christine!" he exclaimed as she turned away, trying to disappear from his view. He caught her arm, though, and she was forced to look back at him with a forced smile on her face. Of course, she felt great joy for seeing him, for she had certainly missed him since they last spoke, but the knowledge that Erik would be in the same building as Raoul frightened her to death. He had expressly forbidden her to see him, and here she was, unwillingly disobeying his orders.

Still, she couldn't turn him away so very quickly, and she felt her false smile give way to one more genuine. "It's lovely to see you again, Viscount," she spoke softly, her eyes darting across the room as she searched for golden eyes.

"Viscount? Please, you must call me Raoul!" he insisted with some hint of offense. "I feel as if you have been avoiding me—please say that is not the case," he continued, his voice only half joking as he released her from his grasp.

"Of course not," she lied, instantly hating herself for the untruth. "Forgive me, Raoul, but I really—…" she began at once, but he didn't seem to hear.

"You look absolutely breathtaking tonight, if you don't mind my saying," he told her, his eyes full of wonder as he looked down at her dress and then back up to her eyes. The compliment she had wanted all night…It made her heart sink, and she felt her smile falter almost imperceptibly. It was only a split second before his genial expression turned to one of slight uncertainty, though, and he cocked his head to the side. "I have never seen you at an opening night performance…You must be here with someone tonight," he said simply, and she immediately looked down, her throat running dry.

"I-I am," she stuttered, and she knew she could not hide the fear that was written plainly in her eyes.

He didn't seem to notice, and his puzzlement gave way to immediate satisfaction. "Your employer, I suppose! How good of him to bring you!" he exclaimed, his own eyes drifting over the crowd as if he might get a glimpse of Christine's mysterious benefactor. "Perhaps I know him! I really must meet him either way," he insisted, his eyes falling back on hers.

She opened her mouth, though she was unable to conjure up even the weakest excuse. But as he looked at her eagerly, a call rang out through the hall and the ushers urged the audience to find their seats to ensure that the opera could begin on time.

"I must go," she said swiftly, smiling as she began to making her way up the staircase, her heartbeat all but racing.

"I will come to your box at intermission!" he informed her, following behind her quickly and grabbing her wrist to stop her. She instinctively gasped in pain, the bruises from her encounter with Erik still healing, and Raoul took away his hand instantly as his face contorted in alarm. In an instant, she could tell that he suspected something was awry, but he was polite enough not to say anything. Instead, he merely looked down at the ticket in her hand and read the number. "Box five," he said solemnly, smiling gravely to her before he departed down the staircase.

Christine swallowed hard and looked down at her wrists instinctively. Erik had chosen a gown with full length sleeves, perhaps on purpose, but the purple marks peaked through the lace cuffs ever so slightly, and her stomach churned at the sight. But within a moment, theatergoers were walking past her and she felt herself led up the stairs in the throng of people. Her mind full of fog, the usher led her to their box, and she found the shadow of a man already sitting in the darkest corner, waiting for the lights to dim.

"I was concerned that you had lost your way," was all that Erik said, standing as she entered the box. She stood there for a moment, staring at him blankly, before she took her seat shakily.

"Not lost," she replied softly. "Merely caught up in the grandeur of it all."


	11. Chapter 11

People were staring, but Christine barely noticed. Perhaps it was unnerving for them to see a young woman seated in a box that was habitually empty to their eyes, but such thoughts did not bother her in the slightest. In fact, the moment the orchestra began tuning and the lights began to dim, all worries of Raoul and Erik seemed to slip into the abyss, and she was utterly enraptured by the mere sound of it all.

It wasn't until the curtain rose when she noticed that Erik had moved and was sitting by her side now, though he was still cloaked in the darkness of the theatre. For a moment, she could feel him watching her, but when she turned to smile at him she found that his eyes were fixed, unbothered, on the stage. And so, her smile faltering slightly, she brought her eyes back to the stage as the streets of Venice unfolded before her eyes and the opera commenced.

It began grandly enough, with sweeping lines and elaborate costumes that rivaled nothing she had seen before. But the German soon caught up to her, and she found herself merely having to listen to the musical phrases, blocking out the language that was so foreign to her ears. Yet much to her pleasure, after the first song had come to a close and applause rang out through the hall, Erik leaned in to her ear and began to speak.

"Stradella is in love with a girl named Leonore, but she is being kept in Bassi's home by force. Bassi wishes to marry her, but Leonore and Stradella decide to elope, and he helps her escape from the house," he said evenly, and she felt her breath stop her throat as she listened. Still, she made no outward reaction, and murmured a word of thanks before turning back to watch as the next song began. He, of course, didn't seem perturbed at all by the plot of the show, and had already absorbed himself in the scene before him. But for Christine, his helpful translation had brought about thoughts of what was to come later that night, making her miss the entirety of the next song in her trepidation. Still, determined to enjoy what peace she was still afforded, she focused her eyes back on the stage, opening her ears and clearing her mind.

This time, the minutes flew as each song went by until the first act came to a close. For a moment, she felt as if she might pass out from her sudden rise in heart rate, but Erik helpfully leaned over to her once more, informing her that intermission would occur between the second and third acts. She let out a low breath, unable to look at him, and nodded. He seemed utterly cool and collected, but not in the premeditated way he usually did when he was expecting confrontation. Indeed, he seemed altogether clueless as to what was going to occur when the next act came to a close. Still, she could not find the courage to speak, and all thought of wanting to warn him fled when the second act began and music once again floated through the room.

"Bassi's associates have been charged with assassinating Stradella," he whispered as the overture played, and she gulped down her nervousness silently. "But Stradella shows such kindness to these men that they cannot bear to kill him," he continued, leaning back into his seat as the actors swept onto the stage.

But this time, she couldn't escape from her thoughts as they raced incessantly through her mind. Every possibly outcome was conjured in her head, and for a few minutes she genuinely considered standing up and walking out of the box without a word. But over and over again she told herself that Erik had brought her here in order to see what she was working towards and to enjoy a work of art as it unfolded before them, and she couldn't bear to pull herself away.

Act two had finished before she had successfully rid her mind of her worries, and as soon as the lights began to come up, she felt her breathing hitch in worry. Erik looked sidelong at her, his eyes narrowing at her behavior, but he stood up quickly and moved into the shadows of the box, unwilling to be caught by theatergoer's prying eyes.

Christine stood up as well, nearly knocking over her chair in the process as she turned to Erik, prepared to blurt out all her thoughts. He saw her jump and his eyebrows knitted together for a split second before his eyes darted towards the door of the box. A deep frown set in on his face and he backed up even more until he had all but disappeared into the corner of the box. "Somebody is coming," he muttered with annoyance, his eyes turning back to Christine in question.

Within a few seconds, a light knock resounded from the door, and Christine's eyes widened in fright as they volleyed between Erik and the barrier of the box. He didn't seem as perturbed as she had imagined he would be, though, and he gestured with a nod for her to answer.

"Come in," she called out quietly, her voice wavering as her lips trembled in dread. She tried to feign surprise when the door opened, revealing Raoul's questioning face, but she knew she had never been an adept liar. "Oh, hello," she continued on with feigned shock, forcing herself not to look into the shadow where she knew Erik resided.

"Where is your employer?" Raoul demanded as he stepped in, his eyes roaming over the box as if searching for the second occupant. "Surely he hasn't slipped out already!"

"He left just before the act ended," she stammered, swallowing back her apprehension as Raoul's disappointment became clear on his face.

"Surely he will be back," he said, more to himself than anything, and she a frown set on her face.

"Why do you want to meet him so?" Christine asked slowly, nearly forgetting that Erik was standing but a few feet away, his amber eyes glimmering faintly in the corner. Raoul merely stared at her though, as if such a question needed no answer.

"Perhaps I will just write to him, then," he conceded, and Christine let out a sigh as she wracked her mind for some excuse or another. "What is your address?"

"Raoul, I don't think that is the wisest idea," she entreated, holding her hands up in assurance. His mouth opened as she finished, but as his eyes flickered back down to her wrists, he stopped. She tried to pull them away quickly, but he lightly took her forearms in his, turning over her wrists in her hands with the most delicate of touch.

"What is this, Christine?" he asked quietly, all thought of her address apparently forgotten. When she didn't answer, her words caught in her throat, he looked up at her with the most pained expression on his face. This time, she couldn't help but let her eyes flicker back to Erik, begging for help, and Raoul turned around just in time to see him coming out of the shadow of the box, his face grim.

"Monsieur le Viscount," Erik said with a steady and contemptuous voice. "Can I help you?"

Christine's jaw dropped open as she searched for some saving words for Raoul, but she found that her throat had run dry, leaving her helpless.

"Ah! You must be dear Christine's employer!" Raoul exclaimed as he let go of Christine's wrists and turned around to face Erik fully, his back suddenly stiff and formal.

"Yes, I am  _dear_  Christine's employer," Erik repeated as he narrowed his eyes dangerously on his target. She could barely stand it—Erik nearly shooting daggers in Raoul's direction, while the poor Viscount stood unknowingly, never seeming to sense Erik's derision.

"May I have the pleasure of knowing your name, Monsieur?" Raoul continued, a polite smile coming to his face which Erik did not find the need to return.

"Is there some reason you are crowding my box?" was all Erik asked, and Christine watched as Raoul's jaw dropped in sudden surprise, caught utterly off-guard by the disrespect. He turned and looked at Christine for a moment, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion, before he turned back to Erik with a forced smile on his face.

"I came to meet you, of course." It was a civil gesture, but it didn't soften Erik in the slightest.

"Gratifying, I am sure," Erik responded dryly, his jaw clenching as he spoke.

"Quite," Raoul replied with a small bow of his head. "And to see how Christine enjoyed the opera, naturally," he continued on with a sudden laugh that seemed to shatter the stillness of the box. He turned to Christine cordially, clearly not wishing to keep her out of the conversation. "Quite the story."

"I wasn't aware that aristocrats truly  _watched_  operas. I assumed they merely came to gossip." Erik's tone still held that razor sharp edge, and Christine felt her face contort in pity as her desire to save Raoul heightened. Raoul's look of shock lingered, and nobody spoke for several moments. Finally, Erik chuckled darkly, folding his hands behind his back. "Pardon my disparaging remarks—heaven forbid that I should wound your sensibility, Viscount."

"Not at all!" he insisted, trying to hide the offense written plainly in his face. It was then when Christine noticed that Raoul was not  _looking_  at Erik, but rather staring openly at his mask. Indeed, he seemed not to see the eyes that lay beyond it, and Erik's annoyance at this seemed to grow exponentially as every second went by.

And so they stood there uncomfortably, Raoul wallowing in his embarrassment while Erik boiled with unmitigated fury. And of course, Christine stood between the two, her eyes shooting back and forth as she followed their dreadful discussion, each response seeming worse than the ones that came before it.

She didn't know when Raoul gained his confidence, but all at once his back straightened up and he gave Christine a strong look, as if making some deep promise to her. "Monsieur," he began, looking back at Erik resolutely, trying to keep his courage strong as he looked to that severe mask. "Might you know how Christine got these bruises?"

The silence was deafening, and the sound of her own heartbeat drowned out the faint conversations of the theatergoers below. She pulled her hands behind her immediately, unable to look at either of the men and wishing more than anything that she could be out of this room, out of this city, anywhere but where she was. And for a moment, when her eyes flickered up to Erik, she saw a murderous glint that she had never seen before that nearly made her heart stop dead in her chest. But he stood in perfect stillness, not so much as blinking as he stared at Raoul with the utmost resentment.

And then, as if by a miracle, the sound of the orchestra drifted up to her ears as they began to tune for the final act. Raoul's expression faltered as he turned to look back at the stage impatiently, as if furious at the management for having begun the act already.

"I suppose I should be finding my way back to my own box," Raoul spoke stiffly to Christine, all but ignoring the third occupant of the box. "It was lovely seeing you. I have no doubt that we will speak again soon." He nearly reached for her hand to kiss it, but Erik began to speak with such disdain that he stopped dead in mid-movement.

"I believe they say that there is no time like the present." Raoul turned once more and eyed Erik, his braveness almost appearing impenetrable but for the slight falter in his eyebrows, just barely revealing his fear. "You wouldn't want to miss such a wonderful  _story_ , now would you?"

Raoul didn't dignify this with a response, and merely bowed to Christine and nodded with difficulty to Erik before he exited the box.

It was then when she realized that she had been holding her breath, and she let out a deep breath as soon as the door had clicked shut. "Erik, please forgive me. He invited himself and I couldn't come up with a proper excuse—he wanted so to meet you."

She spoke in earnest, but he didn't seem to hear her as he moved back to his seat, sitting down as if Raoul had never come in and there had been no confrontation. Christine's face contorted in concern as she too sat down, though she refused to look at the stage or acknowledge the beginning of the last act.

"Please, you must believe me," she begged, this time in a low whisper as the lights dimmed. When Erik finally leaned in to her, she wasn't sure whether she expected to be reprimanded or forgiven, but she certainly didn't expect what she heard.

"She ends up with Stradella," he said simply, his voice void of any emotion. "Bassi sees that they are happy and he gives them his blessing. Because they are  _happy_  with one another." This time, his voice faltered slightly and Christine's mouth hung open, unable to conjure a response to this.

"Erik, did you hear what I said to you?" she finally asked, and he turned his gaze to her slowly, his eyes still strangely blank. "Please forgive me for not warning you. I was too frightened, but I swear that I will never see him again. Truly, I will not." She only half meant the words, and though she would not see Raoul if he asked, she knew that she would regret being apart. Still, she vowed it without a second thought, knowing how strongly Erik felt about it.

Once again, he reacted as she would never expect, and a bitter smile came to his lips as he looked back out to the stage to see the actors came out for the first number. "He loves you, my dear," he said slowly, and Christine's face fell in despair. "He wants to meet me so that he can ask to marry you."

For some reason, she felt tears prick her eyes and she blinked quickly as she turned back to the stage, not wanting him to see her emotion. And somehow, it wasn't emotion for Raoul's sake—it was emotion for Erik's, for what was more painful than hearing his voice stagger under the weight of his words?

They were silent for the rest of the opera, and Christine stopped trying to wipe away her tears soon after they erupted from her eyes. Thankfully, Erik pretended not to notice the tears that steadily streamed down her face, and she feigned not noticing the wounded expression that remained behind his mask. And as the opera came to a close, they remained in their seats for several minutes, watching as the audience shuffled out below them.

"Perhaps it should end differently," was all she said as they sat there, motionless. He didn't respond, though she knew that he had heard her by the way his eyes intensified. "Leonore and Bassi."


	12. Chapter 12

They spent most of the night in silence, unsaid words sitting on the edges of their tongues. Even as they parted ways in the house, they could barely say goodnight to one another, and seemed to drift down the opposite hallways without purpose. And all the while, as Christine made her way back to her room, she couldn't escape the words that had been said. Over and over, she saw Raoul's expression in her mind's eye when he had seen the bruises on her wrists. And then, a mere thought later, she could see Erik's face twist in bitter disappointment as he lamented the Viscount's intentions. And no matter how many times she told herself that he was merely regretful that his pupil would never see her full potential, there was an underlying truth that she could not fail to see.

Yet she continued to blind herself to what was before her, and as she lay in bed with her eyes wide open, she wondered what would become of the three of them. The entire matter made her feel ill, though, and she tossed and turned as her mind tied itself in knots, trying to sort through everything that stood before her.

Her bedside candle had gone out by the time she sat up in bed, not having slept in the slightest. She pulled herself out of bed and wrapped herself in a shawl, padding out of the room silently. Without thinking, she made her way to the kitchen and put on a pot of water in order to make herself some chamomile tea. Her mind told her to go back to her room to enjoy it, but her body began to make its way to the dining room automatically, just as she did every morning. And as she opened the door, somehow she wasn't surprised to see Erik there at the table, a cup of tea sitting before him and a book in his hand.

"Erik?" she murmured, and his head lifted to see her as she poked in. "You're awake?" Somehow in her sleepless daze, she did not find the question out of place, nor did he seem amused by her inquiry. Rather, he smiled wryly and glanced back down at his book as she stepped into the room.

"The devil never sleeps, my dear." The words made her skin cold, and she sat down adjacent to him as a perturbed expression formed on her features.

"You should not say such things," she murmured, studying him closely as he lifted his eyes again. His face was weary behind his mask, and an odd pang of inexplicable guilt rang through her, for somehow, she felt responsible for those tired eyes.

The clock ticked by and they sat without a word, never touching their tea. But time functioned in such a different realm as the wee hours of the morning ticked by, and neither seemed to notice that the other wasn't speaking.

"Why are you still here?" The question came quietly out of the crisp silence, and somehow she knew precisely what he meant. No, it wasn't this room he was speaking of, but it was this house, this job.

"I don't know," she replied quietly, her voice cracking as she spoke in a barely audible tone. She almost said  _employment_ , but that notion was easily a lie—she was barely working for him now, and they both knew that her job did not anchor her there. But thankfully, her reply seemed to be enough for him and he did not press her for something more concrete.

They fell into silence once more and time seemed to easily halt as darkness loomed through the room and the clock ticked out each second. At some point, she felt her eyelids begin to droop, and she turned her gaze to the tea, a weak smile forming on her lips.

"I think the tea is cold," she mused, and he smiled vaguely to her.

"I believe you are correct." And with that, he stood up and gently helped her rise, her body heavy with the desire to sleep. They walked slowly back to her room with his hand resting lightly on her shoulder blades, supporting her drowsy form.

When they came to the door, Christine turned and looked back at Erik, noticing all at once just how aware his eyes were. Unlike her, he appeared wide awake as they stood at the threshold of her room, and she felt suddenly uncomfortable by her tired state. Pushing it aside, though, she struggled to smile as her eyelids fell heavy, before she leaned up and placed a light kiss on his cheek unthinkingly. She faintly registered his expression, but it had disappeared into his stony façade before she could commit it to memory.

"Goodnight," she muttered, and when he didn't respond, she turned and shuffled into her room. She turned once again to shut the door, but found that he had disappeared from the door frame, and she frowned dimly. And as she tucked herself back into her bed, weariness taking over immediately, she knew the words left unsaid. But more importantly, she knew they were both meant to forget all that had occurred by morning.

* * *

She awoke to the sound of arguing. It was an acute sound, for the house was usually silent, save for Erik's intermittent music. But there was no mistaking the dueling voices that echoed back to her room, and she quickly threw on a dress and hurried out to the dining room where she heard the sounds coming from.

"Are you absolutely insane? Threatening behavior is not particularly effective on noblemen because they have  _power_ , Erik!" It was Nadir. She had only met him once, but there was no mistaking the foreign accent that laced his voice.

"And I don't? Interesting. Perhaps I should test that," came Erik's voice, rigid and irritated as always.

"He's prepared to go to the police chief and perform a full-fledged investigation on you!"

"Who is?" They hadn't noticed her slip into the room, and both men turned briskly to her, shock written plainly in their faces. Erik's temper seemed to flair even more, though his anger was directed visibly at Nadir, who appeared almost pleased to see her there.

"Miss Daaé! Just the young lady I was looking to speak to!" he exclaimed in a suddenly jovial tone, vastly contrasting the argument she had just erupted.

"Me?" she asked in disbelief, turning to Erik with wide eyes, though he refused to look in her direction for even a moment.

"You behave as if she's a prisoner, but you needn't interrogate her—she can leave any time she wants!" Erik shouted, and Christine suddenly felt her stomach drop.

"Can she?" was all Nadir said, and Erik's eyes narrowed murderously on the Persian. When Nadir gently approached her, Erik did not protest, and she smiled uncomfortably to their visitor. "Could I have a few words with you?" he asked politely, and her eyes flickered back to Erik. Nadir seemed unperturbed as he turned and met Erik's glower eyes. "Would you mind excusing us for a few minutes?"

"This is my house! I can be wherever I choose," Erik argued, but Nadir gave him a stern look which somehow made him stalk out of the room without a word, almost child-like with his slumped shoulders and clenched jaw. Nadir seemed pleased with this, and motioned her over to the table where a previously unnoticed pot of tea sat.

"Could I tempt you with a cup?" he asked genially, and she nodded indistinctly as muddled thoughts of the previous night invaded her mind. Still, she took the cup gladly, taking a sip and fighting off a grimace at the bitterness of it. "You must forgive us for the tea—we have odd tastes, I've heard." She smiled at that, though still did not respond verbally. "And you must forgive us for our disturbance this morning. Erik and I are rather infamous for our…heated conversations," he finished after a pause.

With no words to respond with, Christine felt very small under his gaze, and he thankfully continued on with the conversation despite her silence. "Do you enjoy being here?" he asked her easily, the question weighed down by double meanings that were carefully hidden by his pleasant tone.

"I do," she replied finally, her voice stronger than she had expected. He didn't seem surprised by the answer, but rather looked almost sad at her words.

"What exactly do you do here?" he continued, and despite his continued tone of amiability, she felt suddenly under interrogation, just as Erik had said.

"I am his employee," she said at first, fully prepared to end it at that. But when Nadir did not change his expression or ask her another question, she looked down at her hands and spoke quietly. "And he is my teacher, I suppose. He is teaching me to sing."

"And surely you know what the Viscount's intentions with you are," Nadir veered onto a new topic, cocking his head to the side as he observed her curiously.

"I do now," Christine replied, the words almost painful to say. "And do not think that I somehow despise Raoul—I rather adore him, but not in the way he'd like me to." Saying it out loud didn't make it any easier, and she felt her face drop in a frown. "I'm afraid we simply have different ideas of what our lives are meant for."

Nadir didn't seem to understand this, and he merely furrowed his eyebrows in response. "If I were with Raoul," she amended, not able to meet his eyes as she spoke, "I would not have my music."

"Is that what Erik told you?" Nadir asked, and somehow she felt indignant at his response.

"Why, yes, that is what Erik told me," she exclaimed in return, though quickly brought a hand to her lips as a regretful look passed through her eyes.

He was just about to respond when his eyes caught her bare wrists. She saw the look of understanding in an instant, and she quickly tucked her hands away, knowing full well what he had seen. The bruises were another day healed, but they still were stained with a healing yellow hue that had given her away.

"Erik," he yelled immediately, standing up and storming towards the door with a fury that she had never seen from this genteel man. She stood up quickly and rushed after him, calling his name, hoping to stop him before he made it to Erik.

She could hear the notes floating from his music room, and Nadir followed the sound, calling his name out once more with unadulterated accusation written in his voice. This time, the music stopped and Erik threw open the door to his music room just as Nadir rounded the corner.

"What are you shouting for?" he demanded with irritation, though he backed up as he saw that Nadir would not stop at the doorway. Christine followed him into the room, her eyes darting between Nadir and Erik as she continued to try to calm their guest.

"Monsieur, please," she begged, but he did not hear her. Instead, he rounded on Erik and stood with a kind of confidence and solidarity that she had not yet seen in him, and certainly not when faced against Erik.

"What did you do to her?" he demanded, and Erik's face immediately melted into painful understanding before he clenched his jaw and hid behind a stony expression.

"Nadir, I think it wise that you leave now," was all he said, and Nadir laughed bitterly at that.

"Of course you would. But I cannot leave now while this girl is in danger!"

"Danger!" Erik exclaimed, scoffing at the comment. "She is not in the slightest danger!" he continued, gesturing to Christine offhandedly.

"And her wrists? I may not be a doctor, but I know how something like that comes about," he indicted, his voice more controlled now, but no less deadly. "You grabbed her wrists and held on while she tried to get away. Those kinds of bruises don't come about by chance."

"Monsieur, it was an accident. He didn't mean to—" she began, and Nadir turned to her with a pitying expression on his face that made her recoil.

"You cannot make such excuses for him, mademoiselle. You do not know what he has done." His words were even and she could see Erik's face flinch out of her peripheries.

"That is his past, and I need only know who he is now," she replied with feigned courage, though she could not deny her innate anxiety at hearing Nadir's words.

"Nadir, you are not welcome here," Erik said in a low tone, and Nadir shook his head slowly at this.

"Ah, yes, always the excuse. No, I will not leave until she  _knows_ —"

"Until I know what?" Christine asked, though Erik was already speaking over her.

"You will not betray the little friendship we still have," he told Nadir, and she suddenly felt like an outsider, unknowing of a past that they were all too aware of.

"She must know what she is getting into!" Nadir argued, and Christine's frustration grew as they continued to quarrel over one another.

"Please, just tell me— _Until I know what_? " she cried out, and Erik turned to her abruptly with hard eyes and spoke.

"That I've killed people," he told her decisively, and the room became silent in an instant save for the ticking of the clock. How was it that she had expected something less severe than this? How could she truly believe that his past was filled with tiny misdemeanors that could be overlooked and forgotten? This was different, though, and it made her ill as she stood there, staring openly at Erik. "Nadir, please show yourself out," was all that Erik said, though his eyes never left Christine's as he spoke.

"I will show you out, Monsieur," Christine said in a low, dead voice, and both men stared at her as if waiting for her to break apart. She walked out of the room, her body quite numb, and she heard Nadir following quietly behind her. As they reached the front door, Nadir slowly came to her and pulled a card out of his jacket, handing it over to her. "My address is on here, and the Viscount has written his on the back. If you should need anything—," he said, but she didn't hear the rest. She knew what he wanted her to hear, what lay hidden underneath those words— _should you want to escape._


	13. Chapter 13

She wasn't even aware that she had stood, unmoving, in front of the closed door for some time after Nadir had left. But somehow, she could not force her feet to move, nor could she bear to shift her gaze from the doorknob as her mind tried to sift through its jumbled thoughts. Why, if she wanted to, she could run out right now and chase after Nadir, begging him to help her. She could find Raoul at this very moment and beg him to take her away from this house. And if she knew anything, she knew that Raoul would, indeed, sweep her away if given the chance. She could run away and never look back, and in time, she could bury any memory of what she heard.

But she didn't move an inch, no matter how her mind yelled reminders of what she had just heard. Motionless, she stood there until her mind finally ran blank as she listened to the even sound of her own breathing. And as she collected herself, she didn't hear him come up behind her, nor did she turn when she heard him say her name. As per usual, she could not read his tone and it killed her not to know what was on his mind.

"I will not stop you if you would like to leave," was all he said when she didn't respond, and her eyes focused in once again on the doorknob. She still did not turn, unable to bear seeing his expression or lack thereof.

"Are you and Nadir truly friends?" The question came out of the depths of her mind, and she felt her eyebrows furrow, confused as to why such words would come out of her mouth. Erik's hesitation indicated to same bewilderment, though he finally did respond, his tone sullen.

"Yes, we are." The reply had not been the one she'd expected, and she was silent once more as she contemplated the words. "Why do you ask that?" Of course, there were so many other questions to be asked—had he really killed people, under what circumstances, what sordid past was haunting him, was he still a murderer, was it even murder? But these questions didn't seem pertinent at that precise moment, no matter how much they weighed on her mind.

It became clear as she stood there staring at the door, and she finally turned around with more strength than she had anticipated. "I merely want to know what is true and what is not."

His expression did not change in the slightest, and she clenched her jaw in hopes of appearing bold. "What he accused me of… What I admitted to… That is true." She forced her emotions to remain under control, trying to reveal just as little as he did, but she could feel herself slipping.

"Do you want me to leave?" she asked instead, not prepared to face his words directly.

He blinked, not expecting her response, and after a moment he responded. "No, I do not." The words seemed to be torn from him, as if it pained him to have to say such a thing aloud.

"Yet you wanted Nadir to leave," she stated, though she was truly looking for a sense of understanding as she took a few steps closer to him and tried to discern his expression. This time, a flicker of anger appeared in his eyes and he looked away immediately as he clenched his jaw.

"Yes, I did," he said through gritted teeth, but somehow Christine still felt perfectly calm as she watched him. "But that is an entirely different issue," he muttered, and she cocked her head to the side slightly.

"Why is that?" she asked him simply, and he looked up, agitated by her forthright words.

"Because he is trying to take you away from me," he argued, his almost child-like demeanor back as his face contorted into a mix of concern and the fury that accompanies a tantrum. Still, he tried to retain his composure, though she could finally see through that usually expressionless face.

"And why do you care?" she asked, though immediately felt guilty for the question, for she felt as if she was baiting him. But he didn't seem perturbed by it, and all at once he shouted out what she had never thought she could hear.

"Because I—I am very fond of you." The words were slow and calculated, almost painfully so, for they both knew the words that he had not uttered—the words that he had edited out and replaced with something gentler.

But her breath stopped dead in her throat as her mouth parted, all courage and all strength having fled in a mere moment. "Erik," she murmured, but he was already speaking once again.

"But I fear that if you stay, you'll despise me," he continued on as he looked away from her, collecting himself quickly, unwilling to show such emotion any longer. "And I could not bear that."

In those moments as they stood in silence, she nearly forgot what had all occurred that morning as her mind filled up with the words he had just spoken. But as each second ticked by, she gradually recalled his admissions and it made her stomach drop in pain, reminding her that she could not forget. "You must tell me what you've done," she finally said, her voice staggering under her words.

"No, you would—…" he began, but she interrupted him easily, doing her best to regain her footing.

"It is not for me, Erik," she said, and he closed his mouth as he waited for her to explain. "It is so that you needn't feel weighed down by secrets."

He slowly shook his head, unable to respond for several moments. "Would it not be easier to simply run off to your boy?" he asked with sudden cynicism, though she did not blame him for the biting remark.

"Yes, I suppose that would be easier." Once again, this snuffed any outward emotion and he merely stared back at her blankly. "Shall I make us some tea?" she said when he wouldn't respond, and he nodded once in agreement.

She walked past him without waiting for a verbal reply and made her way to the kitchen. It wasn't until she was putting on the kettle that she noticed just how much her hands were shaking. In fact, her entire body was trembling uncontrollably as all her feigned courage slipped away, leaving her with the terror that she had been ignoring.

Over and over, she told herself that she had to give Erik a chance to explain. Deaths could be accidental, of course, and who could be blamed for that? But the weight of his statement could not be denied, and somehow she knew that when he said that he had killed people, it was murder, not unintentional. And perhaps, even worse, he was not regretful of his actions. A new shiver ran down her spine as she contemplated this, and she had to be frank with herself—no matter how insistent she was that this discussion was not for her sake, she knew at her core that she had to reconcile with his past. And if she could not do so, then she had to leave this house behind.

But such words were not appropriate at the time, and she would do all she could to regain her composure as she went out and listened with open ears. But as she made her way to the dining room with a tray in hand, she could barely calm her incessant shaking. Somehow, though, when she came in and saw Erik there, sitting just as he did every morning, she felt herself let out a breath of serenity.

He did not so much as look at her as she made her way over to him and set the tray down, pouring him a cup of a tea before pouring one for herself. He took it and held it in his hands, and she could see that he did not know how to begin, how to broach such a topic.

"Where were you born?" she finally asked, and he chuckled darkly at this, shaking his head.

"No, we needn't go back so far. That is a tale for another day," he told her, finally looking up to meet her gaze. At this, she felt herself shrink back into her chair, all feeling of having the upper hand slipping away under his eyes. "No, I believe we would begin in Persia."

It seemed unreal, knowing that he had been to the far reaches of the east, but it certainly made sense—Nadir was clearly of a man of that origin, and one rarely saw people like him wandering around France. But somehow she could not picture Erik in such a place, for in her mind he was inextricably attached to this house, as if he could not exist in any other realm.

"It is difficult to say how I became acquainted with the Shah of Persia, but word travels quickly in such places, and some of my… _talents,_ if you will, were rather desired at the time." She didn't understand what he was saying, but she did not press him, for she knew it would become clear as he went on. He seemed to see her lack of understanding, though, and he looked away with a deep breath, unable to meet her eyes.

"I killed people for his pleasure," he said bluntly, though he corrected himself almost immediately. "For his mother's pleasure, actually. Their fascination with death exceeds my own, which is an achievement in and of itself." His cynic tone came back and it made her skin run cold as he smiled icily to himself.

"H-How?" she forced herself to ask, though she had no desire to know these details. He looked at her for a moment, waiting for her to retract her question, though when she didn't, he went on.

"I built them torture chambers where they could dispose of unwanted people," he recalled, and she instinctively gulped back her disgust and fear. "I installed windows so that they could revel in their elaborate deaths and enjoy the show I created. Of course, they never believed that such simple things as mirrors and heat and trees could make a person kill themselves, but it never failed." He did not smile this time, and Christine's eyebrows knitted together.

"So you never killed anybody by your own hand?" she ventured, and this time he laughed cruelly, shaking his head as he looked back at her with a bold expression.

"Do not delude yourself, my dear. I couldn't count those deaths if I tried." He paused for a moment as he took in her expression, perhaps waiting for her to burst out in tears. "Does that frighten you?"

She put on a stony expression as she looked at him, not wanting to appear weak at despite her horror. "I'm not in the least frightened of you anymore," she told him, though her voice quivered slightly as she spoke, giving her away.

"Oh, Christine, we both know that is a lie," he told her with a tinge of regret. "Perhaps this morning you did not, but now you are petrified. And you do try so hard to hide it, but you needn't. I can see beneath a façade quite easily." The ease of his words only distressed her more and her frown deepened.

"Why didn't you simply make a living through your music?" she asked, and his eyes narrowed behind his mask almost accusingly, causing her breath to hitch in her throat. "You are the most incredible musician I have ever heard. I don't understand," she continued, hoping that this would ease him, but he stood up abruptly and paced to the opposite side of the room.

"Must you ask that question?" he demanded, and she stood up slowly as her eyes followed his form. "Do you not think I ask myself that every day? But the answer is always the same," he lamented, stopping in his tracks as he turned to her. "My face! I am a corpse, and in Persia it was an oddity to be treasured. I was put on a pedestal. But here it is freakish and disgusting, and I can scarcely leave my house!"

"Then why did you leave Persia?" she asked him slowly, and his anger slowly melted away with her question. He let out an almost irritated sigh, though she could not tell if the annoyance was directed at her or not.

"When one becomes too powerful in a world like that, you are exterminated. I chose to flee rather than fall prey to my own torture devices." He shook his head and shifted his gaze away from her thoughtfully. "No, the deformed have a curiously strong survival instinct." She could see the cog's in his mind turning and she remained silent, waiting for him to continue. The irritation faded away as well, morphing into something that she could not discern. "I have done such abominable things, Christine."

"And that is why you and Nadir quarrel?" she asked, suddenly wondering how their guest played into all of this.

He looked up at this and cocked his head to the side, perhaps not expecting this question. "No, that is not it at all," he replied as he moved to sit back down, Christine following suit shortly after. "No, he knows how I feel about you, and he knows what despicable acts I've committed," he reasoned, his eyes drifting towards the tea, avoiding her gaze. "I suppose that he is trying to keep you safe."

"He thinks you would hurt me?" she pressed, though the words made her skin turn cold as she said them.

"I already have hurt you," he replied quickly, turning his gaze down to the pale yellow marks on her wrists. They no longer hurt, but somehow her wrists throbbed under his gaze, as if a shadow of the previous pain was mounting once again.

"Not intentionally," she comforted, though he spoke almost immediately after she had finished.

"And how do you know that?" he challenged, and she looked away hesitantly, not knowing how to respond. "And so if it was an accident—does that make it acceptable?" he continued on fiercely. "Such excuses are for children."

"Please do not call me a child," she replied softly, not willing to look him in the eye. Still, she saw him physically draw back out of the corners of her eyes as he let out a sigh.

"Forgive me." They were silent then, and after several moments they picked up their tea at their own pace, neither knowing what they could possibly say. But finally Christine gained the courage to speak once again, finding strength where she always had. Of course, she doubted Erik's devoutness, but it did not change her beliefs in the slightest, nor did it make her shy away as she spoke.

"Erik, I believe that God gives us the opportunity to start anew every day, and I believe that he is offering you a chance to live a new life," she began, though his expression immediately made her feel foolish.

"Ah, yes. God," he scoffed, setting down his tea with a hard clink as he shook his head. "He's done so well with me thusfar."

"I'm trying to understand and  _help_ ," Christine implored, though she could not hide her wounded pride as he laughed maliciously. He certainly wasn't making things easy on her, but she reminded herself over and over of her vow to remain receptive and sympathetic despite every jab and blow.

"And I do not need your help or God's, thank you  _very_  much." Naturally, his defenses had risen and all remnants of the repentant man she saw had fled.

"If you want me to go, all you need to do is say so," she said suddenly, her tone revealing more emotion than she had intended. After all, if he planned to laugh at her and behave cruelly, then she certainly had no desire to stay.

He became very quiet at this before he reached out and took her hands lightly in his, his skin ice cold to the touch. "No, that is not what I want," he said with sudden calmness, his turn in emotion putting her on edge once again.

"I'm sure you could find another housekeeper," she reasoned slowly, and he laughed once again, this time without any sense of viciousness.

"Ah, Christine, you know that you needn't care for the house—you're hardly here for that anymore." The words came out of his mouth, but as soon as he finished he looked away and let go of her hands, perhaps wishing to retract what he had said.

"Then what am I here for?" The question was a genuine one, and he had no response for several moments. Finally, he tightened his jaw and looked at her, composed once again and revealing nothing.

"I do not think I should answer that," he said, cryptic as always, and she nodded once in response.

"Perhaps you're right."

And with that, they fell into a deep silence, the ticking clock the only thing to accompany their tea. And when they had finally finished the pot, neither having said a word, Christine stood up and took the tray before making her way towards the door.

Just as she was about to leave, though, she turned around and looked at him inquisitively. "May we have a lesson tomorrow?" she asked, and he looked at her with equal interest before the ghost of a smile appeared on his lips.

"If it would please you."


	14. Chapter 14

She didn't know what drove her to sit down with pen and paper and begin writing, but somehow she could not stop herself. At first she worried that Erik would somehow find out, as he seemed to find out about everything, but she assured herself that such a thing was not possible. If there were ever letters to be sent, she posted them, and if letters ever arrived, she retrieved them. Erik never touched the mail, and what he didn't know could not hurt him, surely.

But still, as she began to write the words, guilt ran through her veins. She had told him that she trusted him, that she was not frightened of him, and that she did not blame him for his actions, but here she was writing the Viscount's name on the front of the envelope with shaking hands, as if some damsel in distress.

_My dearest Raoul,_

_I pray that you are doing well and that you are free from concern over me. You seemed perturbed at the opera, and I want to assure you that I am perfectly safe. Furthermore, I do not want you to think that this letter is an appeal for help, because that is not my intention. I have no right to post this letter to you, in truth, but I feel that I must speak to someone whom I trust, lest all of my thoughts make me burst._

_I am frightened. Oh, to write that makes me feel ill, for I know you will read it and think that you must take me away, but you needn't. Please believe me when I say that. But events have occurred that make me question all that I know about this new life I am living, and such uncertainty makes me immensely uneasy._

_Does a man's past have to haunt his present? Must someone who committed evil acts in day's past be vilified for the rest of his life? God tells us to forgive, dear Raoul, and I am so very lost as to what I should believe. And I believe you will hate me for this letter, but I truly have nobody else to turn to. I have nobody else who would ever stop to listen._

_I wish I could see you, for you are my only friend in the world. But I have been forbidden, and I daren't go against such orders. You will think me a prisoner, but I promise I am not—oh, it becomes so muddled when I write it all down, and I haven't a clue how to sort it all out for you, who must be worried out of your mind now._

_I will stop here, I suppose, before I run myself in more circles. I look back, and I have barely written a thing of value, and I've probably only distressed you, but I can't bear to remain isolated and friendless._

_Please do not despise me for this letter, and do not despise my employer. And God bless you._

_Christine_

She looked back on the letter with confusion, knowing full well that this was not a letter that should be posted. She had only muddled her thoughts more, and no matter how genuinely she wished for a friend in this helpless abyss, she knew that he would be up in arms at her words. And so she folded the letter neatly, vowing to think on the matter, and tucking it neatly underneath her mattress.

In the meantime, she had a lesson to attend to. She had not spoken to Erik since their heated encounter, a meeting that seemed nothing but a dream in her mind. She could barely remember his words, so disparate and heart-wrenching, but she could remember the things he had done. Yet she pushed those worries out of her mind, for she had firmly decided not to dwell on the things she could not change.

And so, with head held high, Christine made her way to his music room. She tried to recall the excitement that she felt the first time she went to a lesson, hoping to elicit the same spark in her worried heart now. But her unease held her down, even as she walked in and saw Erik there at the piano, his fingers dancing over the keys.

He didn't seem to hear her, and she stood out of view as his music echoed through the room. It was astonishing, watching him play like this, for she could barely follow his hands given how quickly they flew across the board. And it all came with such ease, as if there wasn't a single thought or worry behind his playing—as if it was all perfectly innate to his very being.

When he finished, she cleared her throat, feeling foolish for not making herself known early. He turned around on the bench quickly, his eyes revealing shock for a split second before he composed himself. "I did not see you there," he said simply, and she merely smiled in response.

"That was a very moving piece. Who is it by?" she asked him, and he paused for a moment, stony faced as usual, before he finally divulged his response.

"It is by me." Her lips parted slightly in surprise, and she wasn't sure how to respond at first. Finally, she looked down at her hands apprehensively and nodded faintly.

"It is astonishing," she replied, though he didn't seem to want to dwell on his disclosure.

"Shall we sing?" he redirected, and she lifted her head to look at him before nodding decidedly.

They began as they always did, shaping her tone and range through exercises. He was particularly tough on her, not allowing her even the slightest slips in voice and catching every tiny negligence. He would stop her and make her begin again, commanding and stern, yet never malicious. This usually did not trouble her, but for some reason, today was different. Every time she was stopped and critiqued, she felt something other than frustration build within her—she felt anger in her depths, and despite her attempts to hide it, he eventually stopped and put his hands behind his back as he stared at her.

"Have I wounded you in some way?" he asked her, his tone genuine but not altogether obliging.

She clenched her jaw, somewhat irritated at being called upon to explain herself. "I am just aggravated by your nitpicking," she muttered, the words sounding irrational to her ears as she said them aloud.

"Do we not strive for excellence?" he asked her diplomatically, and immediately she knew that he was correct. Still, this only made her let out an agitated sigh.

"Of course we do!" she exclaimed, her arms flying out in a gesture of exasperation. "I simply feel as if I'm being punished for something," she explained ardently, and he cocked his head to the side.

"Punished?" he repeated slowly, and before she knew that she was speaking again, she cried out in vexation.

"I thought you said you were  _very fond of me_!" Immediately, she regretted the words, but they had already been said. But somehow his expression did not change, nor did he seem affronted by the comment.

"I am," he replied with prefect tranquility, which did not help her state of mind in the slightest. A mere day ago, he could barely control his raging passions and was jumping from polar ends of the emotional spectrum at the drop of a hat. But here he was, standing perfectly still with his hands clasped behind his back, the picture of solidarity.

"I just don't understand," she exclaimed as she began pacing the room, suddenly embarrassed at her own lack of self-control.

"My feelings have little to do with your progress as my student," he reasoned, and she stopped in her tracks and looked at him suddenly, her mind far from music.

"That is not what I mean at all," she cried out, her thoughts flying rapidly through her mind. "How in heaven's name did we arrive here! I cannot wrap my mind around it for the life of me, and it is driving me insane!" Of course, he hadn't a clue of the letter that she had written, or perhaps he would have understand just how lost she felt—how friendless and astray her life appeared in her mind's eye. He did not respond, though, and she felt herself rushing on as she began pacing once again, unable to stop her words.

"I am a woman—no, a  _young girl_ , for that is what I am—who spends her nights crying over her dead father and spends her days trying to understand the mind of a man who sleeps in a coffin.  _I don't understand_!" she shouted, suddenly feeling a tightness in her throat that could only accompany the onset of tears. She stopped herself immediately and turned away from him as she took several deep breaths, hoping to calm herself before any tears could show themselves.

"That is a…Troubling way to put it," he said quietly, and Christine closed her eyes for a moment. This had not been the response she had hoped for—she had wished for some ingenious comment that would wash away her grievances and give her new hope. But this only made her heart sink deeper in her chest, disappointment radiating through her. "But I must have a frank understanding with you." She turned to him slowly, her tears now under control, and saw him look away from her decisively.

"I expect nothing from you, regardless of what I feel or what I said. And perhaps I should have said nothing—no, I am quite convinced that those words should have remained unsaid," he amended, shaking his head slowly. "But they have been spoken and they cannot be taken away."

Christine stood in silence, clueless as how she was to respond. Part of her wanted to assure him that she did not feel affronted by his words, but something inside of her told her not to do this. Some deep fear within her was begging her to remain silent and not to encourage him, and this time she abided by this and remained still and quiet.

"I believe we should cut our lesson short today. You did very well, my dear, but I do not want you to grow discouraged. We will pick things up tomorrow," he told her gently, yet with an imposing tone. She only nodded as she turned to help him put away the music they had taken out for their lesson.

"By the way, I have this for you," he continued casually, lifting a letter off of the piano and handing it over to her. "It was delivered this morning."

Her mind ran blank and for a moment, unadulterated fright ran through her veins. He was so calm, though, as he gave it to her, which only caused her alarm to mount. Surely he could not have found her letter—she had been alone when she had written it, alone when she hid it, and she had written it less an hour ago. It was impossible! Gulping down her emotions, she looked down at the letter, fully prepared to face his repercussions. But she realized immediately that this was not her letter in the least, and she was taken aback by the sender. Glancing up, she saw that Erik had turned away, busying himself with putting away music, and she slowly opened it with shaking hands.

_Christine,_

_I write to inform you that I will be travelling to the East this evening on business. I do not want you worrying over me, nor do I want you to think that I have abandoned you. My business is urgent and it must be attended to. I wish you the best and hope you are safe._

_Sincerely,_

_The Viscount de Chagny_

When she looked up, she saw that he was watching her, waiting for some explanation. Perhaps he did not know who had written it—the envelope had merely bore her name, after all, but somehow she found it hard to believe that Erik did not know the contents of the letter.

"It is from the Viscount," she told him nevertheless, trying to keep her tone even despite her disappointment. For though she did not feel love for him, she certainly felt admiration and companionship, and to hear that he was leaving at the drop of a hat made her throat tighten once again as tears formed in her eyes. And to hear him sign it as such— _The Viscount de Chagny_ —made her sick.

"What did he want?" Erik asked simply, his tone surprisingly controlled given the sender's identity.

"He's leaving," she told him, and the first tears ran down her cheeks. "Oh, I don't even know why I'm crying!" Christine exclaimed with embarrassment as she wiped them away quickly. "I suppose I just don't have any other friends, and now that he's gone—…" she stopped herself as her face contorted in grief and she turned away rapidly. "Forgive me, Erik. I am being very cruel, I know."

"You have me," Erik replied simply, no anger evident in his voice. Christine stopped, a smile coming to her face despite her tears. "Perhaps I am not well educated in the matters of friendship, but I believe I can be taught."

His words made her laugh despite herself, and she turned to him with an appreciative smile. His face was ridden with concern, and he took several steps towards her as she struggled to gulp back her tears. "Please do not cry for his sake," he told her quietly, his hand coming up to wipe away the stray tears from her cheeks.

Unable to contain herself any longer, Christine threw her arms around him and embraced him tightly, burying her face into his shoulder. He hesitated for a moment before he wrapped his arms around her as well, a hand coming to rest on the back of her head. She reveled in the feeling as she held onto him fiercely, her breathing slowing down as her body finally returned to its usual emotional state. When, at last, she let him go, he looked down at her with a look of perplexity. It was as if he could not understand why she had possibly wanted to hug him, or even touch him for that matter.

Rather than explain, she merely smiled in appreciation to him, letting out a deep sigh. "Thank you, Erik," she told him, and when he did not respond, she made her way out of the music room, her heart suddenly light.

* * *

That night when she made her way back to her room, she checked underneath the mattress and found that the letter was still there, and in precisely the same place. She took it out and reread it, almost disgusted at her words from the morning. What shame she would have felt if she had sent it a few hours ago, only to receive Raoul's dispassionate farewell later that day.

And so she took the letter and brought it to her bedside table where her candle was burning dutifully. She held the letter over the flame for several seconds, waiting for it to catch, before she watched it slowly burn through the words. When half of the letter had dissipated into nothingness, she tossed it in the middle of the stone floor, her eyes sad as it disappeared into naught but ashes and smoke.


	15. Chapter 15

"I know what you've done."

Erik had been unwilling to allow Nadir into the house at first. But when he knocked on the door and Christine answered, Erik saw the unbridled joy of recognizing a familiar face and he had reluctantly let his old friend back in. He didn't fail to notice Erik's gritted teeth as he welcomed him inside, but Nadir tried to ignore the hostility, for there would be plenty to go around as the day wore on.

Nadir had been surprised to see Christine still there, apparently willingly, but he said nothing on that matter either. As they walked back to the dining room and Christine made them their tea, Erik would not say a word about what had transpired since he was last at the house. He would not indicate how much he divulged to Christine, or if she even knew a fraction of the truth, but Nadir could not bring himself to ask for fear of being thrown out again. And at that moment, there were bigger problems to attend to, which brings us back to the present circumstances.

The two of them sat at the dining room table, a pot of tea and two full teacups sitting in front of them, each staring the other down. Erik laughed unexpectedly at the accusation though, somehow overjoyed to hear Nadir's allegations and delighted to be able to reply.

"What in heaven's name are you talking about?" Erik asked as his laughter subsided, sipping his tea cryptically as he baited Nadir, who was in no mood for games.

"Does Christine know that he's gone?" Nadir pressed instantly, and Erik put on an expression of mocking concern as he considered the question.

"She received a letter from the dear Viscount telling her that he was leaving abruptly—that's all I know of the matter," he replied with another laugh, his eyes dancing with mirth behind his mask.

"You forged a letter? To what end?" he demanded bitingly, unable to bear Erik's scornful attitude.

"Why, because he's a sniveling and pompous fop, and Christine needed to know of his true character," Erik countered easily, cocking an eyebrow as his voice turned suddenly cold.

"You know full well that he never would have left unless he was  _threatened_ ," Nadir began, but Erik cut him off as he lifted up a single finger.

" _Persuaded_ , as I like to call it." Nadir narrowed his eyes at this before he looked away with a deep sigh, trying to collect his thoughts before he began his attack once more.

"Erik, what can you possibly want to come out of this? He's going to come back—" he argued, but Erik cut him off once again as he set down his tea promptly.

"Of course he will—but by then it will not matter in the slightest." At this, Erik smiled faintly to himself as he looked away from Nadir, his mind clearly wandering away from the conversation. Nadir put his elbows on the table and leaned forward towards him, hoping to capture him once again in their discussion.

"I know that there is humanity within you. I know that you can empathize with others," he began, and Erik looked back to him with an unexpectedly livid expression. "And you must call upon that now, because this farce is getting quite out of hand."

"Oh, it is not a farce, old friend. It is all quite real," he replied stonily, narrowing his eyes. Nadir didn't respond for several moments, too exasperated to find words, and Erik finally picked up his tea and leaned back into his chair casually, his lips curling at the corners once again.

"Erik, I am not willing to be a part of this charade any longer. I  _will_  get the police involved if I believe that you are endangering people," Nadir said pointedly, and Erik's eyes flew to him with fury blazing behind them.

"I dare you to," he hissed, and Nadir slowly pressed his lips together, not wanting to appear intimidated. "You see, that is precisely what Philippe de Chagny said when I first came to him, informing him that his railroad stocks in Persia were going under and that Raoul de Chagny would be the one to go and supervise the clean-up." He stopped for a moment, waiting for it to land, before continuing on piercingly.

"Ah, yes, the French do have a tight grip on the East these days, or perhaps you didn't know.  _I_ , of course, am aware of this fact. And Philippe did not believe me at first, and he brushed me off as some maniac. He too said that he would  _get the police involved._ " Once again, he stopped and looked straight into Nadir's eyes, a small and malicious smile lighting up his face.

"And so I told him to watch his stocks over the next few days and see how dangerous powerful strangers can be. Particularly when you insult them. And particularly when their meddlesome brothers take what is  _rightfully mine_." He paused, taking a sip of his tea with ease, hoping to see a reaction from Nadir, but the Persian would not let even the slightest twitch escape his features. "And so he watched, and he saw his money disappear within a few hours, as if it had never existed. Of course, that made him far more obliging."

"And so Philippe sent the Viscount to Persia. And now he's out of your hair," Nadir finished with a slow shake of his head, full of disbelief and horror.

"Figuratively speaking, of course," Erik mused as he ran a hand over the hair on his head which both men knew was not real. "It was truly too easy. And quite entertaining, if I could say so myself. You see, I may have left Persia on less than amicable terms, but it is fascinating just how many strings can be pulled years later." Erik pondered this for a moment as he set down his tea. Meanwhile, Nadir struggled to keep his emotions in check as he listened to the deception and manipulation, every word making his heart sink further.

"And may I remind you that  _you_ were the one to tell me not to interfere with powerful noblemen. Perhaps you did not believe me when I told you that I would test the range of my power. Good thing I did, because it is all working out so handsomely, is it not?" Erik celebrated, a wide smile coming to his face as he marveled in his accomplishment.

"And do you think that deception is the way to win a woman's heart?" Nadir challenged, and Erik smirked behind his mask as he looked at Nadir with hard eyes.

"I am certainly succeeding thusfar," he mused, no regret evident in his expression.

Nadir was silent for a moment as his face fell in disappointment, though Erik seemed unperturbed by his reprimanding eyes. "You truly are forsaken," he muttered, and this time, Erik did not grin and did not seem so satisfied. "Can you even imagine what it must like be for the Viscount? Imagine if you had been taken from your Christine!"

"It is useless to imagine such a thing, for under no circumstances would I ever be taken away from her," Erik reasoned fiercely, though his tone held a bit more defense in it than before.

Nadir only stared at him pointedly, and it only took a moment for Erik to discern his meaning. Yes, it would be all too easy for Nadir to go to the police and divulge the details of their lives. Raoul would be called upon to return in a moment's notice and he would take Christine from the house, whether or not she wished to go. It clearly registered in Erik's mind, and he stood up quickly as he began to pace the room with heated steps.

"I merely wanted to show her that he will abandon her! And I will not!" he shouted desperately, not caring how far his voice carried in the house.

"And how do you know he would abandon her?" Nadir pressed, and Erik turned to him sharply with murderous eyes.

"Because I know. Oh, do stop looking at me like a child," he spat, turning away from Nadir quickly as he crossed his arms.

Nadir stood at this, watching Erik's stiff back with melancholy eyes, for he knew that Erik was very much a child. "I will tell her, Erik," he said gently, watching as his back tensed even more. "And you will think me cruel, but you cannot win the love of a woman like this. It must be honest and genuine, for when she finds out—which she will—she will never forgive you. Best tell her now and rip away the bandage quickly."

"You must always ruin every ounce of happiness I manage to find in this world," Erik murmured, his voice sounding suddenly tearful. "I have done nothing to you, and yet you insist on tearing apart the one blissful moment of my life."

"You hurt her, Erik," Nadir replied earnestly, and Erik's head fell all at once. "And I know precisely what you're capable of, and I  _know_  how you would feel if you ever did anything else to her."

"And I cannot change?" Erik cried out as he turned around, his face twisted in pain. "They say men can change, do they not?"

"They can," Nadir agreed solemnly, sympathy written in his face. "But you've shown me that you have not. Your actions—sending Raoul away because he was troubling you—have indicated just how little you have changed. And it pains me to say that, my friend."

"I feel no remorse for sending Chagny away," Erik snarled with sudden bitterness, and Nadir sighed resignedly, grabbing his coat from the chair.

"And that is precisely why I am making a trip to Persia to bring him back. You have until I return to tell Christine of what you've done," he commanded as he pulled on his coat, not daring to look at Erik's defeated expression.

"And why should I listen to you? I could get up and move tomorrow, and you would never find us!" Erik exclaimed threateningly, causing Nadir to smile sadly.

"But you will not," he sighed, shaking his head as he moved towards the dining room door. Just as he reached to open it, he stopped and stood still for a moment, his head hanging despondently. "I do hope that if I were ever so absorbed in love as you are…If I had ever lost my way so terribly, and was committing such acts again… I do hope that you would come and right me."

With that, Nadir grasped the door handle and left resolutely, never once seeing Christine on his way out.

* * *

When Christine finally poked her head into the dining room, Erik was sitting quietly at the table, staring down two teacups with ferocity. Nadir was nowhere to be seen, though she was sure that they had both come in to this room, and she had clearly heard them arguing from across the house. She made a point not to listen, though, not wanting to intrude on their privacy, and instead spent the time practicing the piano in the music room.

But when there had been silence for a significant amount of time, she finally ventured across the house in order to investigate the source of the argument. Yet when she found Erik quite alone, and quite contemplative, she wasn't sure what to say. Nevertheless, she padded into the room quietly, sitting down across from Erik as she waited for him to acknowledge her presence.

"What did Nadir want?" she asked him finally, and his eyes flickered towards her with the strangest expression. He wouldn't respond for several moments, and at a point she began to feel uncomfortable in the silence as his eyes stared intently at her. "Erik?" she asked softly, cocking her head as she tried to catch his attention.

He finally looked away, his expression returning back to its usual, unreadable state. "Nothing of importance," he replied simply, and she furrowed her brow to him. He wouldn't elaborate, though, and she finally stood up and began to gather the teapot and cups, placing them on the tray in order to bring it all back to the kitchen. She stopped short of picking up the tray, though, her eyes fixing on the teacups dazedly.

"Was it about Raoul?" she asked finally, her voice failing her as it cracked under her words. Erik looked up, prepared to respond after a moment, but she continued before he could. "Because if it was, I would prefer not to know…" The wounded tone in her voice could not be hidden no matter how hard she tried, and so she quickly picked up the tray and began to make her way to the door.

"Christine," Erik called out before she had left, and she stopped in her tracks, rather ashamed of her sudden weakness. "Would you like to go out to the country for a bit?" he asked, and she turned around, her face contorting in confusion. "I have another home near Rouen, just a bit farther north than here. I feel a need to be out of the city for a few weeks."

Christine considered the invitation for a moment, unmoving. It would be lovely to be away from Paris, and she longed for a change of scenery. Furthermore, she had never had the pleasure of travelling once she and her father had moved to Paris, and she longed to see something new and different. And a different house would surely distract her from her thoughts of Raoul and his sudden departure. And so, turning around with a sudden smile on her face, she nodded warmly to him. "That would be lovely," she told him, and he gave her a half smile in return.

But as she walked down the hallway back to the kitchen, her mind became tangled once again, for while she had tried to block out all remnants of the argument that day, she had not had not been able to do so with one rather loud phrase. They were Erik's words that had echoed through the house thunderously, and they chilled her to the bone as she recalled them now. They seemed disparate with all of the reassurances she had just received, and they made her doubt his honesty, if only for a brief moment. But that seed of doubt still made her skin run cold and her throat run dry.

_I merely wanted to show her that he will abandon her! And I will not._


	16. Chapter 16

They didn't leave for several days, and much to her surprise, Erik seemed generally unhurried about the entire affair. Some part of her worried that he was running away from something, but tried to remind herself that she was merely reading too far into things. Still, Christine watched him carefully every morning when she brought him tea in hopes of gleaning something from his words, but he was distant and even quieter than usual. Furthermore, they did not have any lessons during that interim span of time, and Christine felt altogether useless around the house. She had tackled most of the rooms, despite Erik's assurance that she was no longer called upon to clean, and there was only so much plunking away at the piano she could do on her own.

And so, when the day came to take the carriage to Rouen, she rejoiced to herself. Of course, she didn't expect any wild adventures while she was away, but the change was welcome nevertheless. She longed to be away from Paris for a while, if only to be away from all the troubles that it had caused over the past few months. But it wasn't until she was stepping into the carriage with Erik that afternoon when she thought of her father, sadness pricking her heart. She had neglected to think of him in the past few days, and as she settled into her seat, she realized that it would be the first time that she was away from his presence, a thought that took her breath away.

Erik didn't fail to notice her change in demeanor, and he watched her intently as she tried to look out the window and avoid his gaze. He would not be ignored, though, and he spoke easily. "Does something bother you?" he inquired, perhaps thinking that the departure from the house was what made her uneasy.

"This is just the first time that I will be away from my father," she said with an air of simplicity as she momentarily turned her gaze to him, though it was difficult to veil how deeply this saddened her.

"You have been away from your father from some time now," Erik replied as he looked at her with a puzzled expression, not able to comprehend her meaning. She sighed, looking out the window quickly once more as the trees rolled past them.

"I mean that this will be the first time that I am not able to visit him. And that troubles me, is all," she tried to explain, glancing down at her hands and then back to him. He merely cocked his head to the side, though, as he tried to wrap his mind around her words.

"It doesn't trouble him, surely," Erik countered, and Christine's eyebrows furrowed in both grief and resentment, unable to respond to this unintentional stab. This, he seemed to understand, and he quickly amended his words. "Pardon me—I've wounded you."

They did not speak after that for some time, each finding the scenery outside far too interesting for conversation. It wasn't long before crowded streets gave way to open country, and despite their brief conversation, Christine felt relief wash over her. Everything seemed far simpler in places like this, and she felt unhampered by the struggles that she had encountered and the painful truths she had endured.

Nevertheless, as they rolled up in front of a rather grand house that sat at the end of a long drive, she felt relief at being able to leave the carriage, particularly now that the sun was setting behind them. Erik got out first, and Christine jumped at this, almost having forgotten that he was in the carriage with her. He had seemed to meld into the very architecture over their long drive—something that appeared to be a gift of his. He opened the door and held out a hand, helping her step down onto the gravel drive before he briskly let her hand go and began towards the door.

She followed behind him immediately, vaguely aware of the driver who was taking their bags inside after them. He hadn't said a word, and Christine noticed before long that the man would not meet her gaze, always avoiding her eyes as if commanded to do so. She did not let this bother her, though, as she stepped inside and took in this new abode.

It held a different elegance than Erik's home in Paris—far warmer, and somehow less antique. Rather, it held an ancestral history in it, for paintings of  _people_  lined the walls rather than mythic tales of heroism and evil. The furniture appeared to be the thing of heirloom rather than of a purchased value, and somehow that made her smile.

"You like it?" Christine turned her gaze quickly to Erik, just now realizing that she had stopped in the front hall to gape and that he had obligingly halted as well. He seemed pleased at her wonder, and she smiled to him genially as she nodded.

"It is just lovely," she replied, watching as he turned and began to lead her farther into the house without a word. It was less of a labyrinth than the Paris house, and she marveled at the simplicity of it all. The halls appeared less foreboding, and when he opened up a door to her room, it seemed to welcome her inside.

"I hope this will suffice," he told her, and she beamed back at him, resisting the urge to take his hands in hers in reassurance. He appeared so nervous there in the doorway, and all she longed to do was reach out and touch him, but she knew such a thing was unwise. He had been so quiet lately, after all, and she feared that this attempt at kindness would be unwelcome somehow.

"It is perfect," she told him, glancing around cursorily once more. "Do you mind if I look around the house?" she asked, longing to walk around a bit after sitting for so long. He paused for a moment, looking down at the ground as he appeared to construct a response in his head with difficulty.

"I actually wanted to show you something in particular," he ventured, and she could see that he was reading her expression, gauging her thoughts. She gave him a comforting look in return, hoping to alleviate whatever anxiety he seemed to be experiencing. She had rarely seen him on edge, but he seemed to be trying to prove something to her, or assure her of some mysterious notion, and she desperately wished to provide some kind of surety. She put such doubts aside, though, pleased to see him sigh in relief as he turned and led her out of the room and back down the hallway.

It wasn't a long walk before they reached a set of double doors, slightly larger than the doors in the rest of the house, and they came to a slow stop. He grasped both door handles and pushed the doors open to reveal the room, the golden and red light of the setting sun streaming in through large, Palladian windows.

She felt her breath fall away immediately as her eyes roamed every inch of the space, in utter disbelief of what was before her. The room was quite large, given the size of the house, and it was lined with bookshelves from floor to ceiling, no shelf left without a full line of texts. A grand piano sat in the corner and a sitting area was situated in the middle of the room, creating a rather perfect ambiance as they stepped inside.

"I always regretted not being able to build a room like this in my Paris home," he told her simply, his eyes drifting over the room just as hers were, both in awe of its grandeur. "But I knew that nothing could rival this library, and I did not want to diminish it even in the slightest."

She had rarely heard him talk so openly, and she turned to him with a look of wonder as he spoke, reveling in his voice. "May I look?" she asked him after a moment, gesturing towards the bookshelves, and he nodded once as his eyes lit up faintly at her joy.

As she walked over to the nearest bookshelf, she scanned the titles, finding a vast array of texts before her. She had heard of a book every so often, but more common were books in foreign languages that she could not understand. Still, she scanned the shelves for several minutes, her finger running over the old spines as her eyes searched for familiar tales.

"I believe I will be spending quite some time in here," she told him finally as she threw her head over her shoulder, laughing a bit to herself.

"I shall be quite jealous of this library, then," he mused in return, and she chuckled before turning back to him, her eyes sparkling with mirth.

"Of course, you needn't be," she assured him, and at this he did not respond. "I fear I'm much too tired to read tonight, but I wondered if you might play something for me," she ventured, making her way back towards him. "If you are not too fatigued, that is."

He smiled dimly at this before he made his way to the grand piano that sat at a distance, not objecting in the slightest to her request. He took a moment to open the lid and remove the cover from the keys before he sat down at the bench. She had followed him silently, watching him intently as he prepared the piano to be played, before she made her first bold move of the evening. He seemed surprised when she slid onto the bench next to him, their arms rubbing against one another, but she was relieved when he did not immediately ask her to leave.

Just as her courage was about to fail and she was about to retract her bravado by moving over to the sitting area, he began to play. All at once, her worries were forgotten as time seemed to stand still and she became lost in his music. He played sweeping phrases and dazzling lines, each one putting her into more and more of a daze. In fact, she wasn't sure how long they sat there, his hands gliding gracefully over the keys, but by the time she became aware that he had stopped, her head was resting gently on his shoulder. He seemed to be looking at her out of the corner of his eyes, and she gently lifted her head, surprised at herself.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, looking down at her hands as her cheeks burned red with mortification. In truth, it felt as if they had only been there for a few minutes, but the darkness in the room, save for the candles that he had lit while she had been browsing the books, seemed to indicate otherwise.

"I hope I did not bore you," he told her with some measure of amusement, though she knew that he did not genuinely think that this was true. Regardless, she didn't mind reassuring him, and she gently shook her head she turned to look back at him.

"That's not it at all. It was magnificent."

At that, they both went silent, and somehow Christine felt no desire to move from the bench. Fatigue was beginning to weigh her down, but there was no motivational pull telling her to stand up and say goodnight. It certainly helped that he didn't move from the bench either, but rather watched her expressionlessly as she stared back at him in silence. Indeed, she simply wanted to stay there in his presence.

Suddenly, their closeness made her feel as if she was reliving that terrible day when she had taken his mask from him, and for a moment she felt shame flood her veins. But this was different, she reminded herself, for this was lovely and warm and comforting, and his nearness only put her at ease. And yet, that same impulse to do something reckless overtook her, and once again she fell prey to her own impulses.

Her lips had brushed against his before she even knew what she was doing, and it was only when she felt him stiffen that she recognized that she may have done something wrong. But she didn't move away for a moment longer, reveling in the feeling of his lips against hers, barely noticing the mask that cut off just above his mouth.

He would not respond, though, and she finally pulled away with wide eyes. She stared at him, searching for some indication of his emotion, but found that he only looked back at her with pained eyes, unspeaking. Her heartbeat mounted, hoping desperately that she had not done something terribly immoral in the wake of all that had occurred between them.

"Was I wrong to do that?" she asked weakly, her eyebrows drawing together as her curiosity slowly turned into unease and humiliation. He still wouldn't reply, and his expression did not change in the slightest as they stared openly at once another, Christine wildly searching his eyes for  _something_. "Oh, I am terribly sorry," she fretted, turning her gaze away from him quickly as shame overtook her and her throat tightened. "I shouldn't have—" she continued on, stumbling over her words, before he turned her chin towards him and pressed his lips onto hers resolutely.

And everything dropped away. Raoul and Nadir and her father were unreservedly gone, and Erik was all that filled her mind. She relaxed suddenly, her eyes closing as the tears that were threatening to spill onto her cheeks were all but forgotten.

When they finally pulled away, she finally saw Erik's eyes register her presence, and she smiled suddenly to him. It was a shy expression, and he didn't seem to understand precisely what had occurred, for confusion still colored his features. Christine brought a hand up to the unmasked side of his face, her smile widening as a breathless sigh escaped her lips.

"You will not abandon me," she murmured under her breath, and for a moment she saw his eyes register alarm. She almost regretted saying it, for he hadn't known that she had heard him yell that phrase across the house a few days prior. But his panic faded away with the blink of an eye, and she was calm once again. In fact, once his worry had subsided, he seemed to drink in the pleasure of having her there, as if pushing aside any unease that dared to encroach on his bliss.

"No, I will not."


	17. Chapter 17

When she awoke the next morning, it was difficult to recall all that had happened the day before. Her mind skimmed over the events, stopping suddenly as she remembered precisely what had happened on the piano bench. Her heart nearly skipped a beat at the thought, and it seemed altogether unreal as she tried to picture it all in her mind once more.

More than anything, she couldn't even fathom how she would face him and how he would behave in her presence. He had always been stiff and quiet in the most disobliging of ways, and somehow she could not imagine them carrying on in romantic bliss.  _Romantic_. The word clashed in her mind, for while Erik was indeed a romantic on one level, he was something else on an even deeper level—he had long since resigned himself to living alone, being alone, and loving alone. He seemed altogether shocked at the idea of somebody being there beside him, and in truth, the notion struck her as illusory as well.

After all, when she looked at it in a practical sense, any kind of relationship with him was absolute folly. He was far older than her, and the circumstances they had met under were bizarre at best. He had done abominable things, and while she told herself that she forgave him for his past, the thought still haunted her daily. And then, of course, she hated herself for wrongly thinking that a person's past had to dictate their future—if her life followed this trend, she would likely have starved to death after her father's passing. But she hadn't, because her path had changed, just as she hoped Erik's path had changed. But putting this notion aside, the moment she truly put the situation at a distance, she saw just how ridiculous it all sounded— _young girl comes to work for a masked man and falls in love with him._

The phrase made her thoughts stop dead. Love. Is that what it had come to? Was that truly what had driven her to kiss him the night before? It had been reckless, of course, but had that recklessness been caused by something deep and meaningful? She hoped that it had, for no matter what Erik thought about it all, she in no way regretted her actions.

And that was what troubled her about it. Immediately after they kissed, Erik had seemed to stare deep into her soul for some time, not saying a word and not moving an inch, before he stood up and bowed his head cordially to her. He wished her goodnight and left the room without another word, leaving her there with nothing but her thoughts to keep her company. It made her desperately curious to know what he felt, and to know if there was some measure of forced repentance with him.

But what brought her the most alarm was something completely different—something unrelated to the events of the previous night. He was keeping something from her, and she knew it. What this mysterious thing was, she couldn't say, but no matter how hard he tried to cover his expressions, she could read this deception in his eyes. And furthermore, she knew that he longed to tell her, but could not bring himself to. She wanted nothing more than to yell and scream to just tell her, for she wasn't sure anything could deter her from how she felt about him, but she could not do it. Something kept her silent, pretending that she wasn't aware of this thing that tortured him inside.

Perhaps what should have worried her more was Raoul's behavior and his sudden disappearance. Of course, it was easier to bear now that time had elapsed, but the entire affair still stung. And now matter how she reassured herself that Erik was there, she still felt the pang of abandonment every time she thought of Raoul. He had claimed to be a friend, promised that he cared deeply for her, and to see him throw such vows away made her feel sick. Forcibly, she made herself forget about him, though. This was no time to pine over young men, particularly since she had reminded herself constantly that she did not feel love for her old friend. But how blurred was the line between friendship and something beyond it. Indeed, things were becoming far more tangled than she had anticipated.

Pushing herself out of bed, Christine tried to clear her head of her thoughts. There was no use in fretting, particularly now that she was out in the middle of the country with nobody but Erik. No matter what conclusions she came to, there was no changing her present state and there was no denying where she wanted to be most. She hoped, as she changed into a dress for the day, that Erik felt similarly, but as she was quickly realizing, she would probably never know.

She heard no movement in the house as she ventured out of her room, and she felt suddenly out of place, as if intruding on somebody else's life. With every portrait on the wall and every personal touch in the house, she felt more and more invasive. But she knew that this had not been Erik's intention, and she tried to shake the feeling as she padded down the hall silently.

She saw it for the first time in passing out of the corner of her eye. It was a portrait that was hidden down the hall, certainly in no place of honor on the wall. But there was no mistaking whose face was detailed on the canvas, even as she saw it in her peripheries.

It was a perfect liking to herself, and it took her breath away. In fact, it wasn't just her hair and her eyes and her facial structure—the woman even appeared to be an approximate of her age. Her hair seemed to curl in precisely the same way, and each curve of her face was incredibly familiar to Christine, for it was her own. But the woman looked out at her with such hardness in her eyes that she could barely recognize herself in her, despite their tremendous similarity.

"Cold eyes for a cold woman." Christine turned around at breakneck speed, clutching her chest in fright as she saw Erik standing at a short distance, his hands clasped behind his back. Indeed, he seemed to read her mind, and she slowly looked back at the woman, her eyebrows knitting together as she observed the painting once more.

She couldn't find a thing to say, because she feared pointing out their likeness. Perhaps Erik did not notice, or perhaps he was even denying their resemblance. She could not even remark on the beauty of the woman, for if he was not in denial, then she would inevitably be commenting on her own beauty, if only by proxy. But somehow, he once again seemed to read her thoughts, and he spoke easily from behind her.

"You are concerned because of your parallel," he helped without trouble, and she frowned slightly as she turned back to him, remaining obligingly silent. "But you needn't be. I have no attachment to this woman. And you are neither a replacement, nor a substitute for her."

She licked her lips, not daring to look back at the painting, not wanting to see it again. "Who is she?" she finally asked, fearing the worst. Surely he did not feel the way he did because she looked the same as some previous lover. His answer told her otherwise, yet she wasn't sure whether it eased her or troubled her more.

"My mother," he replied as his eyes drifted towards the painting, his face hardening at the sight of her. "When she was young, of course." He paused as he took in the painting, his eyes narrowing in something akin to disgust. "You needn't worry—she's long dead. You will never have to fear coming face to face with her."

But this was not what worried her. He said that she was not a substitute, as he called it, but she could not shake her fear that she was just that. He clearly had a dysfunctional relationship with her, at best, and she was alarmed to think that he was merely trying to recreate a maternal relationship that he had missed out on.

"I forgot that this even hung here. Perhaps I should have taken it down before you came," he mused, finally looking back at her and taking in her visible unease. He cleared his throat, looking down at the ground for a moment, before he looked back up at her with a blank slate of an expression. "Shall we sing today?"

She smiled despite herself at this, for he always knew how to ease her mind. This woman would not soon leave the recesses of her mind, but a lesson would certainly help to calm her down. She took several steps towards him, and immediately, she saw him stiffen at her approach. Her smile dropped as he dared to keep his gaze on her, as if completely unperturbed, and a hint of anger bled into her features.

"Are we just going to pretend that nothing occurred last night?" she demanded, surprised at the boldness of her words, and even more shocked at the topic of her rebuttal. She felt herself shrink away slightly as soon as she had said it, but refused to look away from him for even a moment. He didn't speak at first, and she was sure that he was trying to make her retract her statement, if only for his own comfort. But finally, he let out a sigh that sounded vaguely regretful before he averted her gaze from her impatiently.

"I do not believe you were in your right mind last night," he told her finally, and her face twisted in bewilderment.

"Pardon me?" she asked, though she knew precisely what he had said, and worse, precisely  _why_ he had said it. Of course this was how he would react—she had been so surprised at his ease last night, but it was only expected that today he would look back on the event, convincing himself that she had been out of her mind.

"You were tired and we had just travelled for quite some time—" he began to explain, but she cut him off.

"Erik, I wouldn't take back what happened for all the world," she told him, hoping that her voice appeared strong, despite the fact that her heart was racing inside her chest. "I wish I could tell you what I feel, but I'm rather confused about it all… But I am quite certain that I do not regret anything that has occurred between us."

He stopped at this, his eyes searching hers for some sign of deception, for some trick or cruel joke. But she only stared back at him, waiting for a response of some kind and trying desperately to read his expression—and failing, as always.

"So…" he began slowly, and she could nearly see the cogs of his mind turning slowly. "If I kissed you right here, you would not run away?" he asked with extreme difficulty, and she could read the sadness in his eyes.

Christine merely smiled to him, hoping to ease whatever pain was boiling within him, before she shook her head. "No, I would not."

With this, she saw his eyes drift past her before landing resolutely on the painting that hung on the wall. She turned and looked at it one more time, still disturbed by the entire idea, before she looked back to Erik. She cocked her head to the side slightly, trying to discern his thoughts as that melancholy expression sunk deeper into his eyes.

"She would not kiss you," she stated slowly, her own face twisting in despair at the notion. His own mother… The thought made her ill, and she immediately took the last step towards him and grasped his cold hands in her own. "Erik," she called, waiting for him to look back at her and register her words. When he finally did, it was with a throbbing ache of sorrow, and she felt her breath hitch in her throat as his eyes met hers once again.

Lifting his hands to her lips, she kissed each one slowly, ignoring the iciness of his skin with all her might and willing herself not to react in disgust. For in truth, he did not deserve such treatment from any human being—certainly not from his own mother. And so, she let out a low sigh and tried to smile at him without pity, for he despised pity.

"I am not her," she told him, her hands squeezing his momentarily as the two stood there in the hallway, filled with that awful misery that only the past can create. Part of her expected him to pull away and stalk down the hall, fading into a specter as he refused to speak to her for the next week. But he did not do this, not in the slightest. Rather, he pulled one of his hands from hers and gently touched her cheek, as if testing her corporal existence. She smiled genuinely at this, and he was perfectly silent for several moments, as if unbelieving of her lasting presence.

And then he finally leaned down and let his lips meet hers, and in a mere moment, the kiss had changed from the one that had occurred the night before. Before she knew what was happening, she was between him and a wall as their kiss turned from chaste to hungry and needing. His hand was running through her hair, and she was clutching onto his coat as she tried to pull him closer to her. It was the kind of kiss that left her breathless and racing—the kind of kiss that she had never experienced before in her entire life.

And when he pulled away and they stared at each other, each breathing a little more than usual, neither was sure of what to say. Christine touched her hair lightly, feeling the disarray it was now in, and she giggled to herself faintly. She almost put a hand to her mouth, hoping that he would not think she was laughing at him, but rather than grow agitated, an amused grin came to his face as well. And before they knew it, they had both burst out in laughter at the entire affair, and she felt her heart soar, for she had never laughed with Erik before. And if it was anything, it was freeing.


	18. Chapter 18

** The Devil Never Sleeps **

_She wasn't sure where she was. The house had some elements of Erik's Paris home, the house in Rouen, and even her father's house, and somehow they all meshed together in a chaos of residencies. She was peering around corners, trying to discern where she was and who resided in the house, for her mind couldn't wrap itself around precisely what this place was. As she searched, she found that it was altogether empty, though, and all she could hear was the ticking of a clock that echoed through the house with eerie persistence._

_"Erik?" she called out finally, and her voice resounded through the hallway loudly, and she recoiled at the abrupt sound. She blinked, and found herself in the dining room suddenly, and as she turned, she saw a line of bookshelves on the far wall. Her eyebrows came together as her thoughts became muddled, unable to ground themselves in a particular location. Ever turn she made, she was in a different house, in a different room, in a different corner, and she felt as if she was spinning out of control. That is, until she found herself facing the door to the dining room as it opened, allowing two men to come walking in._

_"You're still here?" one of them asked—as he came closer, she could see that it was Raoul, a baffled look on his face. Nadir followed him, looking disapproving and severe as he approached her._

_"Of course I am," Christine replied quietly, looking between the two of them for some kind of explanation. Neither of them had ever spoken to her in such a way, and it made her uneasy to even look at them as they stared at her in an almost judgmental fashion._

_"What would your father think?" Nadir pressed automatically, and she shook her head faintly in response, unable to follow his logic._

_"He is dead," she replied rationally, and she watched as both of their eyes widened in shock. They looked between each other at first, exchanging looks of disbelief, before they looked to her once again._

_"You think he's dead?" Raoul asked incredulously, and she felt sudden embarrassment as she looked into his skeptical eyes._

_"I watched his burial—I know he is dead," she told him with a bit more force behind her words, and Raoul nearly scoffed at this logic, only affronting her more. He seemed to see her frustration, and he sighed as he shook his head._

_"Tell him that," he shrugged, turning towards the door as a new figure came into the room. It took a moment for the figure to come into focus, but when she did, she felt her mouth go dry._

_It was her father, indeed, but his face was not the same. It was not at all the same. Rather, the skin on his skull was pulled tight and the veins underneath his skin glowed purple and red, pulsing grotesquely as he smiled at her gently. It was Erik's deformity, and it was on her father's face—her father, who stood there before her with the most painfully welcoming expression on his face. He seemed to tell her that he was alive, that he was here, and that he loved her—and that terrified her beyond anything she had ever known._

_She screamed and was pulled out of her dream before she could think another thought._

"My dear, you're dreaming! Please, wake up!"

It was Erik's voice, and his melodic tone was being broken up by a thread of torment and concern. Her eyes flew open, and she felt his icy hands on her arms, shaking her awake forcibly. When he registered that she had regained consciousness, his hands flew away from her and he searched her eyes for recognition, ensuring that she did indeed know that she was awake.

Her eyes darted from his to the room, and she anchored herself in the vague familiarity of her surroundings. It took a moment, but eventually she recognized the room that she had been living in for just over two weeks now, and felt herself relax somewhat. It was then when she realized that she was panting and that her throat felt sharp and dry, leading her to believe that her screaming had not been isolated in her dream. She gulped, trying to catch her breath as she looked back at Erik, whose eyes were still frantic with worry.

"Did I wake you?" she asked hoarsely, her voice laced with shame and embarrassment, but he only smiled, shaking his head. She closed her eyes for a moment, somehow managing a weak smile of her own as she sat up. He quickly helped her until she was leaning against the headboard, and she eyed him as she recalled his words. "The devil never sleeps, right?" she repeated, and his smile turned wry, though he did not seem offended by the words as he sat on the side of her bed next to her.

When neither spoke after a moment, he brought a hand forward and wiped away the wetness on her cheek, and it was only then that she realized she had been crying. Her hands flew to her face at once, hoping to remove all remnants of those tears from her face. She had grown to hate the feeling of weakness, no matter how often she felt it in Erik's presence, and she refused to appear more childlike than she already did.

"You had a nightmare?" he asked her, and she immediately looked away at this. Yes, it was a nightmare, and now she was thinking back to it with acute shame. It had been about all the things she wished she didn't dream about, but the things that haunted the corners of her mind every night without fail. It had been about her father, and him, and Raoul and Nadir, and all the things that didn't want to imagine, but that she inevitably did, because she could not help herself.

And what was worse was that when she looked back at him, not having said a single word, he seemed to understand her perfectly. The shift in expression on his face made her heart sink further, and she felt her lips quiver helplessly as she wracked her mind for some way to redeem herself or take away the wound she had created. But no words seemed to come out of her mouth, and she simply sat there with wide eyes, feeling utterly powerless.

Without another word, Erik stood up and looked away from her, his face hardening in order to cover the emotion he had let slip. Before he could take even a step away, though, her hand shot out and grabbed his, stopping him unwillingly in his tracks.

"Erik," she murmured haltingly, her heartbeat mounting as the words were momentarily lost on her tongue. He turned to her, his eyes now hard, and she gathered up her courage in one brave moment. "Would you stay with me? Tonight?"

His shield cracked for a moment as he looked at her with in plain disbelief, and she blushed deeply. "Pardon me, the suggestion sounds so callous, but…" she began, drifting off for a moment as she looked down at her hands uncomfortably. "My father used to let me lay beside him when I had nightmares—it helped to remind me that I was not alone, even when something frightened me…"

Christine stopped suddenly, finding her words foolish as she heard them come out of her mouth. Shaking her head quickly, she forced herself to let out a laughing sigh, hoping to lighten the air. "Forgive me, it was a childish request."

But after a moment, she felt the bed beside her depress as he sat down, and she looked over at him quickly. He would not meet her gaze as he leaned his back against the headboard and clasped his hands, but after her insistent eyes had lingered on him for long enough, he finally let his focus drift to her. She smiled brightly at him, and his stony expression seemed to give way somewhat as a fondness came over his features.

It seemed that now, two weeks and three days after they had first kissed, he was beginning to believe that perhaps she was in her right mind—that perhaps she felt genuine and deep affection for him. That perhaps she would not run away.

* * *

When she awoke, she found that her head was resting gently on his shoulder, one arm thrown carelessly across him. With a yawn, she sat up and looked to see that his eyes were closed, and for a moment she smiled to herself—it seemed that he did, indeed, sleep. But after only a few seconds of watching him, his eyes opened with ease, landing immediately on her with keen awareness. She jumped at this, unprepared to find that he was awake after all, likely aware that she had awoken before she had gained full consciousness. It only took a moment for her to relax, though, and she smiled shyly to him and curled up against him.

"Good morning," he said, the smallest hint of amusement in his voice, and a sleepy smile came to her face as she rested her head back on his shoulder comfortably.

"Good morning," she yawned as she closed her eyes for a moment. "Thank you for staying," she added, his eyes flickering open and drifting up to look at him. He merely nodded in response, a hand running smoothly over the curls of her hair in some semblance of reassurance.

They did not move or speak after that, each lost in their own minds as their breathing evened out together. In her mind, she knew that this was utterly improper, no matter how chaste they had been. An unmarried woman in bed with an older man—sleeping in the same room, even, was a far stretch from propriety. For a moment, she thought of the thin chemise she wore, but could not bring herself to be bothered by it, for she wasn't sure when she had been as happy as she was at this very moment.

And Erik was a gentleman, above all other things. He was a man, yes, and she never feared anything untoward from him, but the thought gave her pause. This bliss was heavenly, and it made her days bright and worthwhile. But more than that, she knew what came at the end of this paradise—matrimony, and all of the acts that came with it. She suppressed a shiver, though it was not from disgust, but rather from curiosity. Of course, she was in this bed with Erik now, but it was under the guise of some twisted, pseudo-relationship. Marriage was something altogether different…

How fascinating that, for a week or so, back when they had been at the Paris home, she had actually though she would marry the Viscount de Chagny. True, she hadn't loved him at the time, but something in the back of her mind told her that this was what would occur, and that this was what he was pursuing. The thought almost made her laugh, but she stifled that impulse as well. The past was the past, after all, and needn't be speculated upon.

But Erik's secret—that was still an issue of the present, and it still stood between them, no matter how much joy she felt in this moment. She felt herself frown at this, and she was glad that Erik was not watching her as she did so, for he would surely press her to tell him what was troubling her. At first thought, this made her anxious, but her second thought brought her in a new direction.

Why couldn't she ask him about it? After all, wasn't it possible that she was reading too far into his reclusive mind, trying to find something amiss in his secretive behavior? Perhaps nothing was wrong at all, and she wouldn't know if she didn't ask! And so, with her head still resting gently on his shoulder, she spoke softly and with as much ease as she could muster, not wanting to startle him.

"Is there something that has been upsetting you?" It hadn't sounded as relaxed as she had hoped, but she did not move from her spot, nor did she retract her sentence. His head turned quickly to her, though, his eyes looking down at her as his eyebrows knitted together behind his mask.

"Why do you ask?" he asked, and she could tell that he was masking his voice with an air of unknowing curiosity. At this, she pushed herself into a sitting position, leaning against the headboard as he was, before she looked down at her hands for a beat.

"It's just… After you had that argument with Nadir, just before we left, it's seemed as if you've been anxious about something… As if something is disconcerting you," she explained to him, finally daring to look back up, hoping not to appear accusing. For that was not her intent, not in the slightest.

When he did not respond for several moments, avoiding her gaze, her focus became more intent and alert, and she suddenly felt fully awake. Something was not right, and her stomach dropped as she watched his expression turned from curious to utterly tortured in a mere moment. Her hand flew to his arm as she tried to ease him, and he looked at her suddenly, his eyes begging for something that she could not name.

"Christine," he began, and his pained tone made her mouth run dry in worry. "You must know that I love you. You know that, don't you?"

Her lips parted as she stared at him with eyes full of concern, suddenly wishing that she had not said a word. His declaration made her heart skip a bit in adoration, but the look in his eyes brought her more remorse than she could say, and she immediately wished to take it all back.

"Oh, my dear," he continued on before she could say a word, and she found herself frozen dead as she stared at him, terrified of what was going to come out of his mouth. "I have done something I oughtn't to have."

That was when she knew that something was deeply and irrevocably wrong, making it all that much more excruciating. But just as she opened her mouth, hoping to find anything to say, something else occurred that made them both stop dead.

Echoing through the house, unmistakable and irate, were three resounding knocks on the front door.


	19. Chapter 19

"Stay here."

It was a command, and it was an unyielding one. Erik had flown out of the room before she could ask even the smallest question, and she sat in bewilderment for several moments without a clue of what she should do. Perhaps it was nobody important, or perhaps he had been expecting a delivery of some sort. But when she began to hear heated voices from the front of the house, she knew something was wrong. She jumped out of bed and threw on a robe, not willing to go through the tedium of pulling on a gown, and rushed out of the room without a second thought.

She hurried down the hall, her bare feet barely making a noise as she rounded the corners quicker than was reasonable, before she finally found herself in the front hall of the house.

Everything stopped all at once and three men turned to her with varying expressions. Christine had no idea what she had expected, but this wasn't it. Perhaps she could have anticipated Nadir's appearance, and indeed, his severe face seemed completely ordinary in her new life. When he turned to her, she saw his expression soften minutely before his gaze shifted to the other man in the room—the one she could never have expected.

Raoul was rushing towards her before she could even comprehend in presence. Yet before he could reach her, she heard a roar from Erik as he stepped in front of her, blocking the Viscount's advances.

"You dare to come to my home—" he growled, and Raoul instinctively recoiled, his eyes shifting between Erik's and Christine's as he tried to gauge what his next move would be.

All Christine could do was stare openly at her old friend, though, her mouth agape as she found herself without words and without reaction.

"Christine—" Raoul began, but Erik cut him off with the same venom.

"Do not speak her name," he hissed, and Christine finally felt herself coming back to her reality. She brought a hand up to Erik's shoulder, hoping to calm him, but he shrugged her off rather violently as he stared at Raoul, his eyes far too still and focused for comfort.

"I did not think that you would leave Paris," Nadir finally cut in, his own voice rather tired as he looked between them, calmer than she could have expected. "Thankfully, your driver was more accommodating with your new location than I had expected."

Erik cursed under his breath, and Raoul appeared to grow impatient at this small talk. He scoffed to himself as he became jittery, anxious to push Erik aside once and for all. "Must we trudge through these pleasantries?" Raoul snapped, and Erik's eyes narrowed on him even more.

"Are you always so disrespectful to men who would lose no sleep over  _killing you_ , boy?" he warned, and Christine finally took Erik's shoulder, forcibly turning her to him.

"Let me speak to him, Erik," she told him evenly, hoping to appear in control of her faculties, for he certainly was not. Erik threw a glance at Raoul, prepared for a quick dismissal of her request, but she continued on before he could say a word. "Erik," she repeated, and she saw his eyes register that she had said his name, and his face softened faintly underneath his mask. "The only way to make him leave peacefully is if I can talk to him." She spoke low in her voice, but she knew that Nadir and Raoul were listening in with doubtful ears, and she dreaded what they would say the moment she was alone with them.

"They will turn you against me," Erik argued fiercely, but Christine shook her head resolutely in response.

"Impossible." She could see Raoul deflate slightly at this, but she did not dare to look at him until Erik had calmed down somewhat. He finally gave her a slow nod, and after a moment, her eyes went to Raoul. He was staring intensely at her, as if she might disappear if he dared to blink, but she tried not to be bothered by it.

"Shall we go to the sitting room?" she asked him civilly, and Raoul slowly nodded, his eyes flickering to Erik for a split second. Erik, on the other hand, seemed to be intent on Nadir now, having nearly forgotten about the boy who was walking down the hallway behind Christine.

She did not hear them speak as she led Raoul to the sitting room, but she nevertheless closed the door behind them and motioned for him to sit down. When she saw that he was avoidant in looking at her, she realized suddenly that she was merely in a robe and nightgown. She blushed to herself, gulping down her embarrassment, before she sat down as well.

"Forgive my dress—I just woke up." The words made her throat run dry, for Raoul didn't fully know what that meant. He did not know that when she said that she had been in bed, it had been with Erik. A deeper blush came to her face, and when she looked up, she could see that Raoul was watching her with incomprehension written in his features. Yes, he wanted to understand what happened in this house and the things that occurred between her and Erik, but these were things she was unwilling to divulge.

"I thought you were in Persia," she said after a moment, broaching another subject that neither of them wanted to touch. But she would much rather speak with him and put it all behind her rather than remain in silence, both too afraid to say a word.

"What is going on, Christine?" he asked instead, his expression turning into one of pain in an instant. She didn't seem to have a response to this, and merely sat there with her mouth agape as her eyebrows came together in some semblance of unease. "Surely you know that I was blackmailed into going to Persia," he began again, and her expression melted away into one of derision.

"Raoul, I am not a child, I do not need to hear tales and falsehoods," she told him with a shake of her head, shocked at her own strength. It seemed like just moments ago when she had been lamenting his departure, but here she was, rather despising his accusations. "I understand completely—if you do not want me to bother you, you just need to tell me. There's no need to run off on some mysterious trip in order to hint at what you mean."

This time, he was silent, as if he was too upset to say a word. "Christine, I—," he began, his eyes flickering away from her for a moment as he tried to collect his thoughts. "I wanted to marry you," he stammered, shaking his head faintly as he looked back to her. "I  _want_ to marry you," he corrected himself quickly before his voice fell off once again.

"And yet you simply  _had_ to abandon me and run off to Persia," she shot back as she stood up indignantly.

"I did not  _abandon you_ ," Raoul argued as he stood up as well, though his voice was far gentler than hers was as she shouted back at him.

"Erik will not abandon me, and you have! Isn't that a rightful test of character?" she cried, though the words seemed foreign on her tongue.  _I will not abandon you_. The phrase had become so embedded in her mind that it simply flew out of her mouth without thinking, and somehow it did not seem quite right.

"Yes, it is a rightful test of character, because he blackmailed our family—" Raoul ventured, but she took several steps away from him as she tried to regain her composure, not wanting the conversation to continue in its heated fashion.

"Please do not try to vilify him—I understand that you may feel some resentment—" she tried calmly, but he rushed up to her, grasping her by the arms as he made her face him.

"You are being blinded by your attachment to him, but it is superficial, Christine! You merely feel a loyalty to this man because he helped you," Raoul explained, and Christine yanked herself out of his arms, shaking her head wildly.

"You are merely envious of him—bitter of the fact that he has won my trust at the very moment that you have lost it," she told him coldly, though she could feel her heart growing heavy as she looked into his eyes. There was no cruelty there, no sense of malice or deceit. And somehow that worried her deeply, for she knew that he was not trying to wound her, and that his words came out of a place of deep esteem. He was only trying to help…

"I have proof, Christine."

And all at once, she felt her skin run cold as she looked at him straight on, her mind running blank. This was what Erik had been trying to tell her only a few minutes ago… But it didn't matter, for in a mere moment and a handful of words, she felt her trust for him shatter. What else had he been withholding? And if he was willing to blackmail people in order to get what he wanted… Why, there was no telling what lengths he would go to in order to get his way.

"Christine?" he asked, and she realized that she had been staring at him blankly for some time, and she let out a long breath, for she had been holding it deep in her chest. "We simply need to bring you back to Paris, and we can untangle this mess once we get there."

"Paris?" she asked faintly, and he nodded firmly to her. In some way, she found herself believing him, certain that if she merely got back to Paris, everything would be well.

"Yes. You can come and live with me," he began, and she started to object, but he held up a hand to stop her. "I am not trying to pressure you into allying yourself with me. I understand that while I may want to marry you, you might not be prepared for such a leap." The words made her stomach twist, for he made it sound as if he would wait for her to be prepared—that she  _would be_  prepared, if he was just patient enough. Still, she remained silent, watching him carefully as he began to explain to her all of his plans.

"Perhaps if you get out of his presence for a few weeks, your head might clear up. I fear that you are not seeing things clearly, my dear." The affectionate term brought a shiver down her spine, for it was always what Erik would call her. She looked away suddenly, beginning to doubt herself even more as she tried to imagine what several weeks away from Erik might be like.

"He's in love with me, Raoul," she murmured almost inaudibly, and this made him go quiet for a moment. Hearing the words aloud nearly brought tears to her eyes, and she quickly lowered her gaze even more, hoping that he could not see the pain in her expression.

"And do you love him?" he asked, though she could tell that the words were nearly pried from his mouth, for he was unwilling to even fathom such an idea. When she didn't respond—for she could barely straighten out the thoughts in her mind, let alone articulate them—he took her hands in his and squeezed them gently.

"He's not what he seems," he told her, and she felt her breath go shallow and she watched him numbly. "I know that he gave you those bruises, and that would be enough for me to indict him. But he's done monstrous things—he's blackmailed my family and threatened me personally, essentially kidnapped you in order to bring you out to the country,  _killed people_ , and heaven knows what else!"

And suddenly, her mind was racing again, and she was lost in indecision. He was right—he had done things that she daren't think about—but that didn't stop her heart from aching at the thought of being away from him. He had brought her fathomless joy, and he had taught her so much since she had met him. But was that all that he had done? For if that was all that was keeping her there, it was a thin basis for her loyalty. And could she truly see a future with him? What could it possibly consist of, particularly now that she had gained a fuller awareness of just how manipulative he had been? What else was he capable of doing? Who else could he bend to his will, and to what end?

For what would happen if she went against him again? Her wrists seemed to pulse instinctively as she thought of it, and a new shiver went across her skin. Would he hurt her? Surely he would not. But his anger blinded him, and what would happen if he did not recognize her through his fury? Or perhaps he would do another magic trick and make another soul disappear to suit his pleasure—was that any less of a crime than harming her?

But then again, what feasible future could she have with Raoul? His social circle was so leagues above her, and her mere interaction with him had likely caused ripples of gossip across Paris society. What would happen if she  _married_ him? It wouldn't be a far stretch to think that he would be disowned, or at least ostracized from the world he knew. After all, he was meant to marry a noblewoman who knew the ways of his world—somebody who would make a supreme trophy, somebody who could hang beautifully on his arm and say all the right things.

Her mind was muddling itself again, twisting and turning her thoughts until she didn't know what to think or what to feel. All she wanted was some anchor, some stability to remind her of what was real and what was not. But between Raoul and Nadir and Erik, such solidity was not in her sight, and she didn't know where to turn. She didn't know another soul in the world—at least none that she could prevail to call upon—and she was being tugged violently by forces far outside of her control.

It was then when she realized that he was still talking, and that she had been staring dumbly at him without recognition. He didn't seem to notice, though, as he paced the room, giving her instructions.

"—not take you long to pack your things. Nadir will stay with him while we go to Paris to ensure that he does not follow us. I argued that we should cut off all contact with him after today, but Nadir insisted that after a few weeks, things must be settled definitely. We will set up some kind of meeting, then, and we can resolve this in a more civil manner." He stopped and looked at her, suddenly aware that she had not been listening to most of what he had said.

"I assure you, my dear—if we simply get you away from all of this, you will see what the right decision is. I know that is difficult to sift through this mess, but it will all become clear."

But somehow, as she gaped at him dazedly, she knew that such a resolution would not be reached easily. And if that resolution didn't happen to favor Erik, then Godspeed to all who were unfortunate enough to get in his way.


	20. Chapter 20

They didn't speak for some time. In fact, they stared at one another quite unabashedly, neither finding the other's gaze disconcerting in the slightest. It wasn't until they heard the door click down the hall, indicating that Christine and Raoul had secured a place to speak privately, that Erik stalked away from him without a word. Nadir, unsure of whether to follow, hesitated for a moment, but finally turned and followed him to what appeared to be a library.

Something inside told him that Erik would throw him out or begin shouting, but he didn't seem to object when he saw Nadir enter after him, though he didn't motion for the Persian to sit down. Nevertheless, Nadir made his way to the sitting area and lowered himself into a chair after Erik had sat down across from him, his face stony and unreadable. Again, they didn't speak, and resolved to merely look at each other, each trying to read the other, and each failing in their attempts.

"I did warn you, my friend," Nadir reasoned after a moment, clasping his hands in his lap as he tried to appear rational in the midst of this chaos. "I told you that if you did not reveal the truth to her soon, that I would reveal it for you."

Unexpectedly, Erik smiled grimly at this and shook his head almost imperceptibly, his gaze not quite on Nadir anymore. Nadir's brow furrowed as he observed this, not quite understanding his cynical expression, nor his eerie stillness. "You all call me deceptive. Manipulative.  _Monstrous_." The words were slow and calculated, and Nadir felt his breath fall out of him grimly as he listened.

"And yet, here you are. Betraying a man.  _A friend_. Taking away his happiness. Showing him that humanity is a myth, and that compassion is not to be expected, even from his closest companions." His smile grew in the saddest of ways as he let out a low and bleak laugh. "No, I believe your behavior is far more monstrous."

"Nobody deserves to be lied to," Nadir told him gently, hoping to ease whatever pain was tormenting him. But rather than accept his words, Erik suddenly looked at him with sharp eyes, his gaze seeming to reach deep into Nadir's mind.

"Don't you dare talk to me of what people  _deserve_. Do you suggest that I somehow  _deserve_ this?" Erik hissed, and Nadir knew that he was treading on thin ice as they broached a subject that had always sent sparks of rage through his friend.

"The past catches up with us all, Erik," Nadir tried with as much ease and civility as he could manage, but Erik would not have it.

"The past!" he scoffed, throwing his hands up in the air as he shook his head. "What a word  _that_  is! It is the perfect excuse to hate me, surely! What other excuse does one need? It is the ideal word— vague enough so that you, my  _dear_ Daroga, need not lose any sleep over the consequences of your actions!" Of course, he was trying to turn the blame back on Nadir, as he always did, but the Daroga tried to stay peaceful as he responded.

"Consequences, Erik?" he asked, though he knew immediately that these cautionary words had not been taken well.

"Yes, malign me for that as well! I must  _pay for my actions_ , is that correct? Oh, how wise of you. How very astute!" Erik shouted, and Nadir began to realize that the man before him was not quite listening to him, and he licked his lips as he took a moment to regroup.

"There is no reason to be mocking," he murmured finally, looking away from Erik for a moment.

"Isn't there?" Erik challenged, cocking his head to the side as Nadir turned his focus back to him. "For it seems as if my wit is the only thing that may be granted to me! Everything else must be taken away from me, because I am such a  _fiend_ —!"

"You stole away a young girl!" Nadir yelled with a ferocity that was unlike him, and Erik became quiet all at once, sedated by Nadir's candidness. "You manipulated her mind and you made her believe that you were the only one in the world she could turn to—"

"Because I am!" Erik cried out in sudden defense, and Nadir could see his fingers twitching in fury as he evidently struggled to keep his emotions under control. "You behave as if you care, and that incompetent boy feigns concern, but it is all deceit and fabrication! The moment she is out of this house and away from my eyes, she will be forgotten and  _trampled_  by this uncaring world!"

Nadir shook his head at this, for it was clear that Erik could not be persuaded, and that his mind had been quite set for some time. "You think highly of yourself—perhaps she does not have as high esteem for you as you might imagine," he challenged, raising his eyebrows to Erik as he awaited his biting response.

"If you're trying to wound me, it won't work, Daroga," he replied, with more tranquility and effortlessness than had been expected. In fact, Erik seemed rather peaceful at this point, and Nadir let out a slow sigh as he attempted to regain his composure.

"That is not my intention, and you know it. I'm merely trying to show you that her affection for you might not be what you think—"

"She's loves me!" This time, Nadir became silent as Erik stood up with roar, his peace giving way to agitation in an instant as his expression turned to agony. "I know she does," he continued after a moment, though this statement was significantly weaker than the last. "No woman has ever loved me before—and no other woman will." He stopped for a beat and seemed to contemplate this, slowly sitting back down. "And do not think that my love for her stems from the fact that she is the only being in this world that does not despise me," he mused, shaking his head as he seemed to picture her before him.

"She is perfect, Nadir.  _Perfect_. And I will die without her, I am quite sure of it."

They were silent at this, and Erik looked away as his breathing evened out and he seemed to calm down. Nadir hadn't the faintest clue whether Erik was about to murder somebody or break down in tears, but he remained on the edge of his seat, prepared for either. It was several minutes before emotion finally gave way in his friend's, and it was completely unexpected. He smiled—a genuine smile, this time, with no hint of wryness of resentment—and looked to Nadir with decidedly clear eyes.

"You think that my love makes me weak, but it does not," he told Nadir, his voice faint. "You think me forsaken, but I couldn't be more saved." He went quiet once again as he let out a laughing sigh, his eyes seeming to see something that Nadir could not. "I wish you could feel what I feel, my friend. If only for a moment."

Nadir had told himself that he would not fold, and that no matter what Erik said, he would not lose his convictions. He still knew that he was doing the right thing, but that look on Erik's face—that utter bliss that they both knew was about to be torn apart—made the familiar sting of guilt flood his veins. But there was no changing what was to happen, and they would all face it as it came.

They didn't hear the footsteps approaching the door, and so when it opened slowly to reveal Raoul and Christine, both men looked over in surprise. Erik stood up first, his eyes focused murderously on Raoul, and Nadir slowly rose as well as he waited for one of them to speak.

"The letter, Nadir?" Raoul finally said without preamble, and Erik's eyes flickered to Christine, a hint of torture escaping his eyes before he turned to look at Nadir slowly. "She would like to read it."

Nadir glanced to Christine as he pulled the letter out of his coat, stepping towards her hesitantly. She would not look at him, and he could easily read the shame that she was trying to conceal. When he handed it over, he could see that her hands were shaking violently, and he looked at her sadly as her eyes locked on the paper.

When she opened it, all three men knew precisely what she was reading. Indeed, she was learning something for the first time that the rest of them had been all too aware of for some time. The letter was line after line of threats, penned by Erik alone, detailing precisely why Raoul had to leave France, and what would become of their family should they disobey. Each word was calculated, and there were no misplaced sentiments. It was pure malevolence and pointed detestation on one single page.

When Christine finally looked up, her breathing had hitched and her entire body was trembling as tears filled her eyes. It was clear that she was struggling to blink them away, but the moment she met Erik's eyes, they spilled onto her cheeks unashamedly.

"Erik," she finally stammered, and Nadir watched as Raoul swiftly brought a hand to her shoulder, his other arm wrapping firmly around her waist in some empty display of protection. "Why would you do this?" Her voice cracked, and Nadir finally turned to look at Erik, who seemed to stare numbly at the three of them, all signs of loving affection having fled. It had been firmly replaced by that expressionless shield that he had so often adopted in order to protect himself, but that was doing nothing to calm Christine.

"You did not have to do this!" she cried out, a sudden sob escaping her mouth as she doubled over in emotion for a moment. The letter dropped out of her hand as Raoul began to whisper calming words in her ear, supporting her weight as another cry resounded through the room. "Would you have truly done all of this? Would you have hurt them?" she demanded as she righted herself momentarily, her eyes searching Erik's wildly for some kind of penance.

"Yes," was all that Erik said, firm and stolid as always. Nadir closed his eyes and sighed, cursing him for his damnable honesty. Christine let out a quick breath of air as she tried to stifle her sobs in spite of his words, but she was unable to maintain control.

She tried to catch her breath as that same regretful smile came to Erik's face, and he slowly walked towards her. Nadir saw Raoul's clutch on Christine tighten, but she didn't seem to notice as she looked up to see Erik there before her. "I told you that they would turn you against me, my dear."

Raoul nearly growled at this, and quickly turned Christine to face him before she could speak, a hand coming up to brush the hair out of her eyes. "Come—we needn't trouble ourselves with him anymore."

And before any of them could say another word, Raoul was ushering her out of the room, her weeping breaths echoing down the hall before the front door opened and closed in a mere moment. The faint sound of gravel could be heard from the library as the carriage rolled away, and they were gone.

And then it was silent. Erik still stood where he had when he spoke to Christine, his eyes riveted in the spot where she had stood. For a moment, Nadir longed to tell him that she was not there, but something in the way Erik stared, full of awareness, made Nadir believe that he knew. It was some time before either of them moved, though it seemed like a mere blink of an eye, for time had seemed to stop in that silence.

"Oh, Daroga," Erik murmured, shaking his head remorsefully. "He will crush her."

* * *

She couldn't calm herself down. Every time she thought that she had overcome her heaving breaths, a new wave of sobs came about and she was lost once again. After some time, her crying continued simply because she was angry at herself for her tears, and every time her mind yelled at her to stop, her tears overcame her once again.

And meanwhile, Raoul sat across from her, watching her wearily as she fought this internal battle, and somehow Christine felt no comfort from his presence. In fact, she felt utterly humiliated with every sob, and she wanted nothing more than to be away from this man's discerning gaze.

But things became worse as the ride continued. At a point, she had calmed herself down enough to only be shedding silent tears, her wild breaths having subsided. Her mind still shouted to itself, trying to convince itself to stop her histrionics, but she had resolved to accept this quieter, less disruptive form of grief. It did not seem to satisfy Raoul, though, and after a long spell of silence, he let out a noisy sigh and grasped her hands tightly.

"My dear, you mustn't cry over him." The words were meant to be genuine, but she could hear the subtle irritation in her voice. Of course, he had likely expected her to be rejoicing at their triumph, praising him for his gallant rescue, but she felt that such emotion was disingenuous.

And so she merely looked out the window, avoiding his eyes as he grasped her hands a bit tighter. "No more tears—you will forget him before you even know it."

At this, she turned back to Raoul with incredulous eyes, her sadness having fled for a fleeting moment. "You think that I could forget him so easily?" she asked him slowly, suddenly quite aware of her faculties as she watched his gaze turn down in embarrassment.

"I do not mean to discount your relationship," he assured her, the last word clearly distasteful on his tongue. "But we can look to the future now—a real future, and a promising one."

"I did not say I would marry you," Christine replied evenly, and he seemed taken aback at this as he pulled his hands away hesitantly. He tried to brush it off though, feigning a bright smile of confidence.

"I will convince you yet, Christine Daaé," he told her jovially, but she could easily recognize the counterfeit delight in his tone, delicately masking his wounded pride. "I am very fond of you, you know," he tried, hoping to bring some happiness to her eyes, but her expression fell numb at his words as she blinked dimly.

"Yes," she reflected almost inaudibly, her eyes drifting back to the window as all hint of her tears quickly disappeared. "Yes, I believe you are."


	21. Chapter 21

This bed was unfamiliar. The sheets were too soft and there were a few too many pillows resting at her head. This wasn't right.

For a moment, Christine remained with her eyes gently shut, recalling this sensation, for she had felt it before. The first night she had slept in Erik's home, she had felt precisely the same way, and for that split second, she reveled in that simple comfort. But when she finally opened her eyes, she was not in Erik's home, and she felt her stomach drop in acute disappointment. Indeed, it was a home she had never seen before, at least not before the previous night.

It was a decadent house—not dignified in the way Erik's was, but prideful and somewhat gaudy in appearance. The colors were too saturated and the metallic shined too brightly. She gripped the blanket in her hands, her eyes roaming across the room faintly as the events of the night before came back to her. All the words that had been spoken and all that had been left unsaid quickly filled her mind, and her breath seemed to leave her all at once. But before she could dwell upon such things or replay such moments, the door opened and she jumped as her eyes flew towards the sound.

A woman walked in and closed the door behind her unhurriedly, before finally turning to look back at Christine, who was now clutching her blankets tightly to her chest. The woman did not seem bothered in the slightest, though, and made her way to the armoire in the corner stiffly.

"I am here to help you dress, Mademoiselle," she told Christine, her words were tight, but this explanation did not aid in the girl's discomfort. In fact, she perhaps pulled the blanket closer as the woman retrieved a dress and turned back towards the bed. "Well, I can't very well dress you if you are going to remain under those blankets."

The tone was a hostile one, but Christine tried to ignore the biting ring to her voice as she slipped out of the bed and made her way numbly towards the stranger. The woman was staring at her as if she were mentally ill, but Christine disregarded it as she prepared to accept her help, if only out of courtesy. But after a few moments, she couldn't shake that disgusted stare which the woman didn't bother to conceal, and she quickly changed her mind, stopping halfway between the bed and the woman.

"I can manage," Christine said simply, trying to remain civil as the woman's scowl deepened.

"Mademoiselle, it is my job," the woman snapped, and Christine struggled to remain pleasant in the face of this animosity. But it was as if she had somehow wronged this stranger, yet wasn't entitled to know just  _how_ she had insulted her.

"I don't want to trouble you," was all that Christine said, and the woman stared coldly for a beat before she placed the dress on the bed and walked out of the room, closing the door behind her promptly. Christine listened to the footsteps as they faded away down the hall, hearing them stop just before they went out of earshot. As soon as she went to pick up the dress, though, she heard faint voices coming from somewhere down the hall. She made her way towards the door, her curiosity getting the best of her as it always did, and leaned her ear towards the door to listen.

"He's lost it, I'm quite sure of it. First he traipses off to Persia, and then he's back in the blink of an eye for this useless girl." It was that woman, and she was making no attempts to hush her voice. "She'll be nothing but trouble, mark my words. Likely she's just after him for the title—heaven knows anybody would bite at the chance to move up a few rungs on the ladder!"

Her stomach dropped at the words, and she moved away from the door at once, not wishing to hear another word of their conversation. Blocking all sounds out of her mind, she stumbled towards the bed and changed into the gown, indeed struggling to manage by herself. But it didn't matter—she would rather go out without any clothes than even contemplate asking that woman for any help.

When she had finally pulled herself into the dress, she found herself at a loss. What was she expected to do now? Certainly not sit in this room by herself all day, wasting away the minutes until Raoul came to find her. And so, unable to accept that as her only option, she tentatively made her way out of the room. As she had expected, the woman was still standing at the opposite end of the hall, a man situated next to her, both talking rapidly to one another.

"Excuse me?" she called out, and they both stopped suddenly and looked to her. "I'm not sure where to go," she explained as she hurried down the hall, trying not to notice the contempt written in their expressions.

"The Viscount is waiting for you in the dining room," the man said, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. Christine only blinked at this, for all three of them knew that she hadn't a clue where the dining room was. "Go down the hall and take your third right, then your first left," the man told her in a bored tone, and Christine tried to smile in reply.

"Thank you," she told him politely, nodding her head before she turned and began down the hall once again. She could hear them sniggering behind her, but once again, she blocked out the sound and held her head high as she turned the corner.

But after she had taken the first left, it was not a dining room she found. It was merely another hall, perhaps a half a dozen doors lining the walls. Her eyes flickered across each door as she gulped back her embarrassment, her heartbeat mounting gradually. She only paused a moment, though, before she continued down the hall without a shred of shame, for she refused to turn around and ask for directions again. She would not give them the satisfaction.

The next hallway did not prove successful though, and she found herself at a dead end before long. She feared opening up doors at random, for she did not want to walk in on a bedroom or perhaps interrupt somebody's work. And so, as she found herself at the end of a long string of hallways, she finally resolved to simply lower herself to the ground, her mind running blank as she looked down at the endless string of doorways.

She wasn't sure how long she sat there, her eyes glazed over in thought. It wasn't so much that she was waiting for Raoul, but after enough searching, she couldn't seem to find the point of fretting herself any longer. And it certainly wasn't sadness that overtook her as she sat against the wall, her eyes losing their focus as the hallway seemed to fade away from sight, but rather a sense of cold reality, and even a bit of indifference to it all. After all, this wasn't her home, nor would it ever be. And what purpose was there in attaching herself to this garish place, if at her core, she knew she would not ultimately remain here?

Her eyes came back into focus when she saw movement down the hall, and she quickly looked up, blinking away her thoughts promptly. It was Raoul, and he rushed to her immediately, grabbing her arms and helping her back into a standing position.

"What are you doing down here?" he asked her, brushing a strand of hair out of her face as she looked at him curiously.

"I couldn't find the dining room," she told him simply, and Raoul's eyebrows came together in confusion as he evidently tried to read her expression.

"You could have asked Marie—I sent her to help you get dressed. She said she would help you find your way." He seemed bewildered suddenly, as if something in this puzzle did not fit, but she merely smiled in return.

"Yes, she was very helpful." Raoul stared at her for a moment longer, but her pleasant expression seemed to satisfy his carefully discerning eyes, and he gestured down the hallway.

"Shall we get breakfast? You must be hungry," he redirected, and she allowed him to lead her back through the house, carefully turning every so often until she found herself in a lavish dining room, breakfast already out on the sideboard. "I was afraid that you were refusing to come out," he confessed as he moved to the sideboard.

She stood off to the side, watching silently as he put together a plate for her. Something inside her boiled, for she suddenly felt as if she was nothing but a child, but she did not say a word on that subject as he handed her the plate. "Why do you say that?" she asked him with as much ease as she could manage, and he stopped to look at her for a moment.

"You were just rather upset last night, that's all." He turned back to the sideboard and began to put together his own plate. "But you're right in how you're behaving—best to put it all behind us sooner rather than later."

She did not say anything, barely able to take a bite after she had sat down. As she sat there, she was vaguely aware of Raoul, who seemed to be speaking to her about something or other. But all she could see was the footman, who was staring at her as if she was missing a limb or perhaps was carrying some appalling disease. At some point, she heard Raoul tell him that he was free to leave them be, and the man bowed cordially to the Viscount. And to Christine, he sent a scathing glance just as he leaving—a look that Raoul failed to notice as he began to eat.

"They look at me as if I do not belong," she mused, though her words were not filled with regret or fault, but rather a sense of faint inquisitiveness. Raoul stopped and looked at her for a moment, and she could see the puzzlement in his eyes.

"I suppose they are merely unaccustomed to having another resident in the house," he explained slowly, and Christine looked down at her hands. "It is nothing against you, my dear," he continued gently, and she looked up quickly as she cocked her head to the side.

"Isn't it?" she pressed, though her tone was still not accusing. "They're ashamed to have somebody like me in the presence of a person like you," she continued on easily, the words not stinging her in the slightest. His expression twisted into concern, though, and she knew that he was wounded by the words. "They say I'm here simply to steal away your money."

"Now, that is not true, Christine," Raoul said quickly, shaking his head fiercely. "Nobody would ever suggest such a thing—"

"Open your ears, Raoul," she countered, her lips coming together in a grim line. "Everybody is suggesting it." He stopped at this, not quite understanding, yet unwilling to argue.

"Christine—…" he finally murmured, looking away uncomfortably, and she smiled faintly to him.

"I'm not offended," she assured him, though these words did not seem to snuff his vague anxiety. "In all fairness, I shouldn't be here."

"You mustn't say that, Christine," he said with sudden fierceness, and she fell silent as she stared at him. "You have every right to be here, and if anybody has anything to say otherwise, then they shall speak directly to me. Is that clear?"

His words were so clipped that suddenly, she felt as if she were being reprimanded, and her smile abruptly faded away. "Quite."

They fell into silence, and Christine finally forced herself to take a few bites, though she could not taste a bit of it. It was several minutes before he finally spoke again, his tone somehow free of worry. "I thought we could take a walk around the grounds today. We haven't had a sunny day in some time, and it might be nice to get some air."

Christine looked up at this with a frown, and he stopped eating for a moment when he felt her gaze. "Is this what you do with your days?" she asked him slowly, and his brow furrowed once again in bewilderment. He didn't seem able to respond for a moment, but when he finally did, his voice was defensive and hesitant.

"I do work, if that's what you're implying." He stopped for only a beat before continuing, not giving her even a moment to reply. "I merely thought that you might enjoy some company."

"That's not what I meant," she told him slowly, and he went quiet. "When I said that, I meant… Is this what I will do with  _my_  days."

He blinked, perhaps trying to understand her statement, or perhaps attempting to formulate an appropriate response. Eventually, he cleared his throat and moved his napkin to the table before folding his hands in his lap. "Well, I suppose so," he told her, and she felt a small frown form on her lips. "Take walks, read, perhaps garden if it pleases you—although we have people to plant everything. You would be free to simply enjoy the outcome of their work, of course." He stopped, for he clearly discerned how terrible those words sounded once they had been spoken aloud.

"And we will go out to dine, of course. Attend galas and other evening events. I daresay you will be quite busy," he amended rapidly, but this was not what she had hoped to hear.

"I will spend my days doing nothing, then," she confirmed plainly, and once again he seemed affronted by the statement, but tried desperately to mask this offense.

"It is not _nothing_ , Christine," he said with a sigh, shaking his head. "It is simply a different life than you were living before. Before you were the daughter a violinist, and then a housekeeper for a madman," he remarked, and she clenched her jaw at his words. "And now you will be—"

"A Viscountess."

He closed his mouth and looked at her peculiarly, and she gazed back with a numb expression. "If you so choose," was all he said, and her eyes drifted away from him. He waited for her to respond, but she could not formulate any words as dim thoughts of her fractured future drifted through her mind. He finally sighed and looked down at his hands, his voice suddenly defeated. "If you do not want to go for a walk, I will not make you. I only thought it would make you happy."

Her gaze flickered back to him, and she could not erase the sadness written in her expression. "Yes, I suppose I would quite enjoy that." It was then when this little girl who had always abhorred telling falsehoods first began to master the art of gentle deception and carefully placed lies. And in spite of everything, she couldn't say whether it was for his sake or for hers.

 


	22. Chapter 22

Over a week drifted by without word from Erik, and Christine slowly felt herself fading into a life of monotony and uselessness. She would wake, dress, eat breakfast, and then perhaps walk or read. She was permitted to write letters, but who could she write to? None of the servants would so much as glance at her, and Raoul was only there to talk to her during meals. And for all the other hours of each endless day, she was alone.

And then a night came when at some strange hour of the night, her eyes flew open and found themselves locked on two yellow glints in the corner of her room. Blinking rapidly, she sat up and squinted, trying to discern whether or not they would disappear into the pitch darkness. But as her body pulled itself into consciousness and she became acutely awake, the gleaming dots failed to vanish. That is, until the man in the corner blinked once, and they flickered off and on for a mere moment.

"Erik," she said slowly, and she found that her voice was weak from sleep. "Is that you?"

He did not respond, but the eyes blinked once again, and her own vision began to adjust to the night. Gradually, she was able to see the dim outline of his mask, contrasting in the dark corner, and she pushed herself out of bed. She nearly ran right to him, desperate to grab him and hold on tight, but she stopped herself short. Perhaps this was nothing but a dream. After all, how in heaven's name could he possibly find his way into Raoul's home and locate her room? Yes, this did seem like a manifestation of her mind.

Swallowing down her apprehension, she spoke once again despite her doubts. "Are you well?" The question was a foolish one, but somehow it was a comfort to say it aloud, even if he wasn't actually there. "I've missed you very much."

Another blink, but no movement from the corner. Christine listened to the faint sound of her own breathing as she stared hard into the darkness, trying to anchor herself in reality, but found herself at a loss. "I-I know that I should be unhappy with you for the things you've done, but I just want to go home."

 _Home_. The word brought about a slight movement in the corner, and she took a tentative step towards him. "I despise it here. I feel like an intruder, and I can't stand wasting away my days. I tried to put away my dishes today, and the servants looked at me as if I had struck them." This elicited no reaction, and she was silent for a moment, unsure of what she could say to this specter. But only a beat passed before the feelings that had been restrained for the last week finally bubbled up within her, and she was speaking once again.

"I hate it. And I'm beginning to hate Raoul because of it, and I know that it's not his fault. And I think that makes me a terrible person." The eyes moved almost imperceptibly, and she took the last few steps towards him, until she was at arm's length. "I believe I'm beginning to understand… I don't think all of your reasons were honorable, but I think I see why you didn't want me with him." She looked away for a moment, shaking her head, before her eyes darted back towards the glowing orbs, as if afraid that they might disappear.

"I'm not meant for this life." Once again, she thought through the events of the last few days and felt her stomach drop in disillusionment. "They think that I am here for his money. Or perhaps they think that I'm some cheap prostitute that Raoul is parading around as a childhood friend. It's disgusting," she hissed, for as she spoke, she grew even more appalled by the situation.

And then all at once, her eyes flew to Erik's as she searched wildly for some recognition. When he would not move a muscle, she finally lunged forward and grabbed him by the arms, relief flooding her as her hands came in contact with a real body. A sentient being. For a moment, she had begun to believe it had been her imagination, and she began to doubt her own sanity. But when she felt him there, she sensed her breath rise high in her throat, inexplicable tears threatening to spill onto her cheeks.

"Why did you have to do that, Erik," she asked him desperately, yet he still would not say a word. "I just want to go home, but I'm stuck here, tied to this man who means increasingly little to me as every day passes! But, if I leave, I fear that I am giving you license to deceive me and control every decision of my life!" She stopped for a moment, watching as the eyes blinked slowly to her in perfect silence. "And yet, if I remain here, I will be put on a pedestal and never be allowed to leave it."

She fell quiet at once as her hands fell back to her sides, and she watched intently for each blink, reminding her that he was indeed there. Finally, she let out a slow sigh and turned her eyes to the ground. "I do not know what to do, Erik."

And then he finally spoke. And yet, they were not the words that she had wished to hear, and they only made her heart sink in response. "Go back to bed, Christine," was all that he said. She stared at him for several minutes more, her mind slowly dulling as fatigue once again took over.

"Will I see you again?" she asked him finally, and she seemed to hear the smile in his voice as he replied, though she could not see his expression.

"I am always by your side."

That seemed to be enough to make her turn around and crawl back into bed, shutting her eyes to those glowing dots in the corner. And somehow, despite all of the apprehension and regret that had been flooding her senses over the last few days, she finally slept well for the remainder of the night.

* * *

The next morning, she could not say how much of what had occurred was real. Something inside of her wished more than anything for all of it to be true, but something else told her that it had merely been an elaborate dream. After all, how could he possibly make his way into Raoul's home, unnoticed by anybody? In fact, from what Raoul had told her, he was still in Rouen with Nadir! It seemed unfeasible that he had travelled all that way to Paris only to turn around and return to the country by morning.

But as she pushed herself unwillingly out of bed and made her way to the dresser, something caught her eye in the corner of the room. There, at the desk that sat adjacent to where she had allegedly seen Erik, sat a single rose. It was an unassuming gift, but she instantly knew who it was from, and she felt her heartbeat being to race. He had been there—she had touched him, and he had listened to her words.

Her words. They still held the same power in her mind as they had the night before, and she felt a new found solidarity within her as she stared at the rose on her desk. It was as if the fog was clearing, and all at once, she knew what she was meant to do. She only took a moment's pause before she hurried to the armoire, frantically changing into a dress so that she could make her way down to Raoul, who would invariably be waiting there for her.

And indeed, when she made her way through the twists and turns of the house, which she had memorized after the last fiasco, she found Raoul there with a newspaper in front of him. He looked up at the sound of her footsteps, and a wide smile appeared on his face.

"Good morning," he told her as he stood up cordially. She stopped for a moment as she saw him, before she went to her seat and sat down abruptly without going to make herself a plate for breakfast. Her mind was still flying, and words she longed to say danced at the end of her tongue as Raoul slowly sat down, looking at her inquisitively.

"Is something the matter?" he asked her gently, and her eyes flew to him at once.

"No," she replied without a pause. "No, I am quite well, thank you." He watched her for a moment, perhaps waiting for her to get up and get food, but she remained still as she gazed, unblinkingly, back at him. "I wanted to talk to you," she continued abruptly, and his eyebrows shot up.

"Wonderful. I'm afraid I must give you my news first—I've been waiting all morning for you to come down so that I could tell you," he cut her off eagerly, and she closed her mouth faintly as she waited patiently for his words. "I've arranged a trip to Sweden!"

Her entire face dropped at this, but he didn't seem to notice as he folded up his paper enthusiastically and looked back to her. "I think the fresh northern air would do us some good, and we have a summer home there! Wouldn't it be lovely to visit the town where you grew up?"

"Raoul—" she began, but he continued on before she could say another word.

"We'll leave tomorrow, and perhaps stay for a week or two. Hopefully the weather permits us to go out to the sea once again," he told her jovially, waiting for her to offer him some affirmation of joy. When she stared dumbly at him, his brow furrowed and he leaned forward slightly. "What is troubling you? You look as if you've seen a ghost."

"I don't want to go to Sweden," she told him quickly, and his look of concern morphed promptly into one of indignation.

"Of course you do," he told her swiftly, and he gestured for the man waiting on them, indicating that he should leave the room. Once the door had closed, he stood up and moved around the table, kneeling down before Christine's chair. "What in the world is the matter with you?"

"You exhaust me, Raoul!" she exclaimed, pushing her chair away from him and standing up abruptly, putting quick distance between the two of them. She could sense him slowly standing up behind her, clearly taken aback by her words, but he remained silent. "I have been led around and told what to do my entire life, and I am dreadfully tired of you telling me what I would  _like_  and what would be  _best_  and how things  _should_  be." She turned around and saw his frown deepen even more.

"That's not my intention," he began slowly, and she scoffed, shaking her head.

"Of course it is! Perhaps you don't mean ill by it, but it is certainly your intention." He closed his mouth at this, no rebuttal at hand, and she let out a slow sigh. "For once I would like to choose the facets of my life. But apparently I cannot be afforded that luxury, because everybody is afraid that the choices I make might not benefit them." She stopped for a moment, contemplating her words, before she looked up at him defiantly. "Well, perhaps I would like them to benefit me, instead."

"I'm not sure I appreciate what you're suggesting," Raoul replied with a surprising bite, and this time, Christine's face twisted in bewilderment.

"And what, precisely, am I suggesting?" she challenged, for she thought she had been quite frank, and he waited a beat as he formulated his words.

"That I am somehow like Erik." The words seemed to be torn from him, unwilling and disgusting on his tongue, and he continued quickly. "But I am nothing like him, and I resent the implication—"

"I am not suggesting that you are like Erik," Christine countered with a fierce shake of her head. "You are nothing like Erik!"

"You say that as if you would like me better if I were," he muttered, and she did not miss the wounded tone in his voice. Still, it did not quench the fire of bitterness within her as she spoke.

"Perhaps I would!"

She had meant the words, but she regretted them as soon as they had left her mouth. The look on Raoul's face was that of pure misery, and any anger he felt seemed to disappear in the blink of an eye. He turned away quickly to shield his face from her view before he made his way back to his seat, gathering his paper in his hands.

"Raoul—" she began, though she hadn't a clue what she would say. There was no taking it back, nor did she have the desire to. But he began to speak before she had the chance to discover what she might have said to soothe him.

"We will be leaving for Sweden tomorrow," he told her, and she could sense the forced coldness of his voice, leaving no room for question. When he looked up, it was with an expressionless face, but she knew better than to mistake this for true rage. It was merely a clever mask for his wounded pride and saddened heart—both things he refused to reveal in light of their conversation.

"Are you trying to make me despise you?" she asked him softly, though her words held no malice, nor hurtful accusation. He licked his lips, looking down once again as he processed the question, before a regretful smile came to his lips.

"That is the last thing in the world I would strive to do."

With that, he bowed his head with determination, purposefully avoiding her eyes as he turned and made his way for the door. He opened it forcefully—perhaps with more aggravation than he had meant—and paused for an imperceptible moment before he shut it firmly behind him. And then he was gone. And Christine was left there, her body numb at his words, as she stared motionless at the door.

Alone.


	23. Chapter 23

That night, Christine pulled herself into bed fully clothed, her heart beating rapidly as her eyes remained wide open in sharp awareness. She could not even consider falling asleep, for when she awoke, she would be led far away from Paris. Of course, she had thought about what would happen should she refuse to go, but such an option was out of reach. After all, where would she run to? She did not have a home in Paris, and she did not know where Erik was residing. And if she were somehow lucky enough to find his house in this massive metropolis, what would she do if he was, indeed, still in Rouen? No, standing outside of his house day and night until he returned was madness at best.

And so as the night wore on, she blinked away her fatigue and looked in the corner over and over again, hoping to catch a glimpse of those yellow eyes. But every time she did, she saw nothing, and her apprehension mounted with every passing moment. He was not coming. And she would leave this house in the morning, and he would never know where she had gone or what had happened to her. And worse, she would never be able to tell him that she did not want to go, and that she wanted him to take her away.

The wee hours of the morning passed by without any movement in the room, though, and weariness finally took her over as she fell into a dreamless sleep. She wasn't sure how long she slept before she heard the creak of the floorboards and her eyes flew open instantly. She sat up in bed at breakneck speed and looked around, relief flooding her veins as the two golden pinpricks of light glowed across the room.

"Erik," she breathed, throwing her blankets off of her before she rushed towards him. Before he had a chance to say a word, she threw her arms around him and buried her face in his shoulder, unable to restrain herself. He stiffened for a moment, perhaps surprised at her fervor, but after a second he relaxed and embraced her uncertainly.

It was only a moment of bliss, though, before she pulled back somewhat and looked at him with crazed eyes. "You must take me back. Tonight."

This time, with her candle flickering in the corner, she could see the faint features of his face as they contorted in confusion. "He will come after you," he told her with a shake of his head.

"I don't care!" she exclaimed, no longer restricting herself to a whisper. "We can go somewhere far away—anywhere! Just please take me away." He looked at her hard, trying to read just how genuine this plead was, and she finally let out a long sigh, her eyebrows coming together in distress.

"He's taking me to Sweden tomorrow. And I have nowhere else to go." His eyes seemed to fill with understanding, and she shook her head swiftly, her breath hitching in her throat. "If you do not take me back tonight, I don't know when I could possibly see you again."

He was silent for a moment, and all Christine could hear was the sound of wind beating against the window intermingled with the sound of her rapid breathing. Finally, he took in a breath and spoke once again. "You want to come back with me?" he asked her slowly, and she took his hands in hers, squeezing them gently.

"Yes, I do," she told him, and he looked away for a moment, pain written clearly in his eyes.

"Because I am the lesser of two evils?" he asked her in the same tone, and she felt her heart drop slightly.

"No, that is not it," she said after a moment's pause, but he didn't seem to hear.

"You do not want to be with the Viscount, and so you want Erik to take you away, because you have nowhere else to go," he elaborated, and she could hear the thinly veiled agony in his voice. "I understand," he finally nodded, his eyes coming back to her.

"Erik, you are not listening to me," she begged, and after a moment, his eyes softened in something akin to acceptance. Indeed, her words seemed to remind him that that her sentiments were perfectly sincere and that she spoke in truth when she said that she wanted to run away with him.

"I have deceived you, though. I have done wrong," he continued on after a pause, shaking his head despite her insistence.

"We all do wrong, Erik. But when you love somebody, you can look past those things towards a better future." His mouth hung open as he looked at her in disbelief and wonder, a low breath escaping his lips. The words had barely hung in the air before three swift knocks echoed from the door. Both of their heads snapped towards the unexpected sound, before they heard a voice beyond the door's threshold.

"Christine?" It was Raoul's voice, and her heartbeat quickened once again as her mouth ran dry. "One of the servants told me they heard a commotion—that you were perhaps talking to somebody," he explained, and she looked at Erik desperately, unable to force even a word out of her mouth. He made no movement, fully aware that there was nowhere he could go, and they both looked back at the door helplessly.

The door was unlocked, and she knew that there was no stopping it when the doorknob turned and the door was nudged open tentatively. "Is everything alright?"

When he stepped in, he was taken aback to see her out of bed, and it was only a split second before he saw the second occupant of the room. He immediately stiffened, and she could see his hands clench, aching for a weapon of some sort.

"What is going on?" Raoul demanded, and Christine stared at him, her mouth agape as she searched for some explanation. Erik seemed to read her distress, though, and he spoke swiftly before she could struggle for words a moment longer.

"I'm taking her back home." Erik's words made her eyes fly to him, and she let out small sigh of relief. But from behind her, she could hear Raoul's voice growing anxious as he spoke to her with alarm.

"She is home," he began at first, before continuing on. "Christine, come to my side. I will call the police immediately, and we'll have him locked up for good."

She turned back to him at this, her eyebrows furrowing at his demand. "What are you talking about?" she asked slowly, and Raoul scoffed in impatience at her reply.

"He's a murderer! A kidnapper, a liar, a  _despicable_  human being!" Raoul argued, and she could sense Erik stiffen at the words, perhaps quelling his urge to lash out in return.

"Can the past not be redeemed?" she shouted back, her fear morphing into full-blown anger in the blink of an eye.

"Simply because he has manipulated you into feeling some sort of attachment to him does  _not_  mean that all of his wrongs can be forgotten!" he replied fiercely. Christine looked at Erik weakly, but he merely stared back at her in response, waiting to hear what she had to say just as much as Raoul was.

"He has not manipulated me into doing anything!" she cried, turning back to Raoul frantically. "You are only saying these things because I am choosing to stay with him and your pride is wounded," she accused, and Raoul smiled faintly in response.

"You are only unhappy with me because you know that you made a mistake," he reasoned, and Christine clenched her jaw in resentment. "You know that you were misguided in believing that this man could provide a sensible or stable life for you, but you needn't be upset! The death of a family member can make us all blind to reality, and I am here to guide you back onto the correct path," Raoul told her with false encouragement, and she watched as a flicker of pleading hope passed through his eyes. Yes, he was desperately wishing that she would go with him, and she knew instantly that it was because he loved her.

"You cannot guide me anywhere, Raoul," she told him sadly, her anger suddenly snuffed out at as she stared into that frantic gaze. "You only know me as a child—as a little girl who played by the sea with you—but you could never know me as a wife."

Raoul's face fell at this, and he was silent for a beat. "You don't know what you're saying," he stammered, but she sensed that he knew her words to be true. Christine let out a low breath, looking down at her hands before she spoke again.

"I know precisely what I'm saying," she told him, and her eyes shifted to Erik after a pause, their eyes meeting in silence before she turned back to Raoul. "You were right before, when you said that you were nothing like Erik," she told him, and Raoul's jaw clenched instinctively. But it all seemed to become clear as she spoke, and all sense of indecision seemed to fly away from her with each word. "Because I love him. And I only think I'm  _supposed_  to love you."

The words seemed to hit him squarely in the chest, and hearing the spoken aloud with no hesitation made him stop dead. "But you do not," Raoul finished for her, his voice barely coming above a whisper as he looked hard at her.

"No," she told him faintly as she shook her head, sensing both men's eyes on her. "I do not."

Raoul blinked, his lips coming together in a thin line as he looked away abruptly, unable to find any words to reply with. That was when she felt Erik's presence come up beside her, his hand coming to rest between her shoulder blades tenderly.

"You will let us walk out of here together," Erik said finally, and Christine felt a sense of comfort come over her at the sound of his voice, now strong and commanding once more. "You will not follow us. You will not tell anybody that I was here. You will merely say that Christine has decided to live on her own in an apartment somewhere in Paris."

Raoul's eyes lifted as he looked at the two of them, barely willing to believe what he was hearing as his gaze shifted between them sadly. "I do not want you to leave," he said finally as his eyes came to rest on Christine. "I imagine such an incredible future with you."

"I know," she told him gently, for the desolate look on his face had only deepened. "But it's not what is meant to be. I just know it."

He was silent for some time after that as he took in her words and processed them. After a long pause, he looked down and blinked several times, his breath shaking. "And you will be happy?"

The ghost of a smile came to her face at last, and she nodded almost imperceptibly in response. "Yes, I will," she told him firmly, but he would not dare to look at her. Another moment passed as they looked at one another before Raoul finally stepped aside, revealing the door to the bedroom. Erik began to lead her towards the door, but Christine stopped in her tracks as she passed by Raoul, who was looking desolately down at her hands.

"Raoul," she said, and he looked up slowly, a frown etched into his features. "I do not despise you."

His lips twitched in the semblance of a weak smile, but he did not respond, even after she had smiled in return. Still, there seemed to be a sense of resolution in his expression, and he finally looked between the two of them and gave her a slow nod. And so, after a final pause, she turned back to Erik and they walked easily out of the house and into the midst of night.

When they had reached the street, they began to walk leisurely through the night as Erik led her back towards the house. The roads were empty, and they didn't see a soul or hear a sound, save for their own footsteps. After several minutes of this silence, Christine looped her arm around his, pressing her shoulder against his as they walked.

"This is not a dream, is it?" she asked as she looked up at him briefly, looking for some emotion in his masked face.

He glanced back down, some mixture of disbelief and delight swimming in his eyes. "No, I do not believe it is."

A smile came to her face as she looked forward once again, gazing into the misty fog that drifted through the light of the streetlamps. "Were you in Rouen all this time?" she asked him, and she felt him nod slowly.

"Yes. Nadir is still at my home there, thinking that I'm fast asleep. He'll be furious if he finds out what I've done," he mused, though she could sense the seriousness that laced his tone. They fell in silence, for Christine hadn't any idea how to soften his worries, and she did not want to trouble him further.

"Erik," she finally said as she stopped in her tracks, turning to him as he came to a halt as well. "You know that I am not here simply because I do not have a home," she told him, and his mouth turned down somewhat. "I am here because  _you_  are my home."

He did not seem to know what to say in response, and so Christine merely leaned up and pressed her lips to his gently, lingering there for a moment before she pulled back. He simply looked down at her, his eyes filled with something that she could not place, and she linked her arm with his once again and led him down the street.

"What happens next?" she asked him simply, and he was quiet for another moment before he glanced at her with a small smile that was filled with adoration.

"Whatever you'd like to happen," he replied easily, and a grin came to her face at his words as she contemplated the possibilities.

"I have always wanted to travel somewhere that I've never been," she mused, her eyes drifting up to the sky in thought.

"Name the place. We can go anywhere," he told her, and she chuckled a bit to herself at the gallant nature of his reply. "We can travel and see every opera and sing every day."

"Everywhere. I want to go everywhere," she told him teasingly, and he let out a small laugh himself, a sound she rarely heard.

"I'm afraid you'll have to choose one place first, and then we'll talk," he told her, his voice light, and she nudged him teasingly. They walked for a moment in silence after this, their pace leisurely as they turned down a new street.

"Will Nadir be very cross?" she asked after several minutes, her tone somewhat more somber this time.

"I'm sure he will be," Erik replied, looking away for a moment as he spoke, perhaps hiding his apprehension at this notion.

"We shall write him a letter, then," Christine told him firmly, hoping to raise his spirits. "He can visit us any time he likes, if only to ensure that I'm not being chained up in your basement or something equally absurd." The words were meant in jest, and thankfully Erik smiled in amusement as he heard them.

"We shall simply tell him that we are off to…" she paused for a moment, searching for a place to travel. "Austria! We're off to Austria to get married." The words had come out of her mouth before the thought had even entered her mind, and Erik stopped dead in his tracks before he looked at her slowly, his mouth slightly agape at her sentiment.

"What did you say?" he asked her, and she gulped as she stopped as well, looking up at him expectantly.

"I can be your wife, can't I?" she asked him tentatively, and she felt her breath stop in her throat as she stared at him in unveiled hope. He was silent for far too long, and she felt dread overcome her as he watched her in astonishment. "Erik?" she asked slowly, and he looked down for a moment.

"I simply never thought I would hear such words," he explained, and she smiled weakly at this.

"I'm afraid that was not the response I had hoped for," she admitted, and his eyes flew back to her, as if finally registering what she had said.

"There is nothing I would hope for more than to be by your side for all my days," he told her with determination, and her breath seemed to leave her all at once at his words. They lingered for a moment, but there didn't seem to be a need to say anything more, and they both began to walk once again as contentment fell over them. It wasn't until they found themselves across the street from his house, stopping to let a lone carriage pass, when she finally spoke again, her tone ironic and questioning.

"Erik," she asked him curiously, cocking her head to the side. "If the devil never sleeps, does that mean the devil's wife isn't permitted to sleep either?"

He looked down at her, raising an eyebrow at the query, before he looked back up and began to lead them across the street towards his house.

"I suppose we'll have to see about that."

His words echoed faintly across the street as they came up the pathway to his home, their arms still linked together, before they disappeared resolutely past the threshold of that wonderfully familiar wooden door.

 


End file.
